You Know I'm No Good

My head was throbbing before I even opened my eyes and I had to fight the urge to vomit as I pawed around beside me for my phone. My arm swung beside me repeatedly, having trouble landing on my bedside table. I groaned, cracking an eye open.

Where was my bedside table?

I rolled over slowly, glancing around the unfamiliar room, panic beginning to set in as I realized I had absolutely no idea where I was. I was alone in the bed, the other side still made up. I glanced down, lifting to covers slightly to see a large navy t-shirt covering my body. My eyes shifted as I racked my brain for what had happened last night. I remembered getting to the club, at least, not that I would really count that as a win. I remembered Emma shouting and harassing the club patrons, and I remembered ordering several rounds of shots with her and…

I buried my face in my hands as it dawned on me.

Harry.

Harry had been there. Harry had taken shots with us, not nearly as many as Emma and I, but he had taken them nonetheless. My breath hitched in my throat as I tossed the covers off my body.

“Classy, Camden,” I whispered to myself as I made my way out of the unbelievably comfortable bed and into the hallway of the unfamiliar house.

It was hardly decorated, just several miscellaneous pieces of furniture scattered through the hallways along with paintings and photographs on the floor, propped up against the walls. I made my way into what I presumed to be the living room, the soft hum of the TV filling the air, along with quiet snores coming from the leather couch in the middle of the room.

I peered over the arm of the sofa. His curls were matted and he looked slightly uncomfortable on the much-too-small loveseat. The edges of my mouth pulled up slightly as I made my way over to him, moving the throw blanket a bit so I could sit on the edge, a little space made from the awkward fetal position he was in.

The sinking of the couch caused his eyes to flutter open slowly, taking a moment to focus through his sleepiness. He smiled slightly when he noticed me, stretching his legs over the opposite arm of the couch as he yawned.

“Mornin’,” he mumbled, unable to keep his eyes open.

“Harry,” I said softly, biting my lip, “you spent the night on the couch?”

He shrugged, his tired eyes opening a little more. “My guest room isn’t situated yet,” he told me, “’s no big deal.”

“Why didn’t you just bring me to Nick’s?” I asked him, frowning a little.

He looked me, confusion spreading over his face. “You don’t remember?”

I gawked at him. Of course I didn’t remember. Had he seen the amount of liquor I put away last night?

“You asked me not to,” he propped himself up on his elbows, his voice even deeper from sleep. “We shared a cab, I figured since we both lived in Primrose it just made sense, and when we pulled up to your house you told me Nick would be awake and you didn’t want to stumble in all pissed,” he chuckled. “So I told the driver to just take us both to my place and then suffered through all of his cheeky remarks for the rest of the ride.”

“So we didn’t…?” I began, a hot blush creeping onto my cheeks. Something I was not accustomed to. I was more of a ‘gather your heels, tip-toe out the front door at six am and never be heard from again’ kind of girl.

He laughed and shook his head. “Call me old-fashioned,” he croaked.

I grinned and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear, shaking my head at how ridiculous I must’ve been last night. Emma and I certainly brought out the crazy in each other.

“Oh god,” I gasped, color draining from my face, “Emma…”

Harry nodded as he pulled the blanket from his body and stood from the couch. “Zayn dropped her at her flat,” he assured me. “He texted me before he went back to his.”

My heart rate slowed and I glanced up at Harry’s bare chest as he messed with his phone.

“You birds are a party,” he laughed, drawing me from thoughts of abs.

“Uh,” I stammered, shaking my head, “yeah, we’re a bit bananas.”

He tossed his phone on the couch beside me and made his way into his kitchen. I spotted my clutch on the counter and followed him. I had several text messages from Emma, not a single one of them spelled properly. The last one made me giggle slightly.

Zayns a genlman boooo :(

I took this to mean that Zayn had indeed dropped her off, nothing more. I texted her back, telling her I’d call her later, though I figured she probably remembered about as much as I did from the previous evening. Harry shut the fridge and turned to me.

“Anything good?” I yawned.

“A loaf a bread and a yoghurt,” he chuckled.

“The woes of being an international popstar,” I joked, zipping my clutch and tucking it under my arm.

“Where’re you headed?” he cocked his head to the side.

I grabbed my camisole off the back of a chair in the dining area in one hand and collected my shoes in the other. “We,” I smiled, “are headed to breakfast.”

Harry stayed in the car, idling in the driveway while I ran inside the house to change. I tried my best to hurry as I stumbled around my bedroom, looking for something suitable for the chilly London weather. I settled on a billowy sweater and jeans and slipped my feet into a pair of flat boots before jogging down the stairs and out of the house. There were one or two photographers on the other side of the gate when I climbed into Harry’s car; it was something that I was slowly but surely getting used to whilst living with Nick. I wasn’t comfortable with it by any means, but I quickly realized that I wasn’t going to able to avoid it.

Harry smiled as I buckled my seatbelt and pulled out of the drive, taking off toward central London. I told him to pick since I still didn’t know of many restaurants here anyway. Nick and I had been out to eat, but obviously rarely to breakfast. We pulled in front of a cute little French place, complete with a wrought-iron fence around the patio, that Harry claimed had “the best crepes ever”.

We were seated immediately at a table near the back, soft jazz filling the air as we read over the menus. I trusted Harry’s judgment and ordered crepes with a spread of fruit to dress them with. The waitress grabbed our menus with a smile and took off for the kitchen.

“How ya feelin’?” he smiled at me as I rubbed my eyes.

“Like proper shit,” I laughed. “I must learn to remember that tequila and I are not friends.”

Harry chuckled and took a sip of his water, “I don’t believe tequila is anyone’s friend.”

“Words to live by,” I smiled.

The waitress returned with our food in no time and despite being consumed with the delicious meal, there wasn’t a dull moment between Harry and I. We talked mostly about growing up, as he had lived not even ten miles from me in Cheshire. I think that was initially why Nick and him got on so well, as well as their similar sense of humor. I found myself actually enjoying myself in his company, which surprised me considering how much I had fought it. I suppose his gentlemanly behavior this morning had sort of forced me to switch gears.

The check arrived long before we had even begun to run out of things to talk about, but Harry paid it anyway and escorted me out of the restaurant. Again, there were several photographers lined up outside, something I was sure Nick wouldn’t be happy about, but I had enjoyed myself enough that I didn’t care.

The drive home was short, made even shorter by the fact that I didn’t particularly want it to end. I smiled and thanked him for a lovely morning before sliding out of the SUV. I shut the door and made my way up the walk, but something stopped me in my tracks as I heard his car pull away.

It was different car, I told myself as I stared at the driveway. I had learned to drive a Honda, not a Volkswagen. That’s what I told myself, at least.

But I’d recognize that Man United decal anywhere.

The three of them were seated at the island in the kitchen, cups of tea steaming in front of each of them, my sketchbook spread out in the middle. My eyes shot from the book of drawings to my brother. Nick was staring at me apologetically, looking as if he desperately wanted to explain the situation. He would later, I would make sure of it.

“Mum, dad,” I said hesitantly as I approached the barstool in front of me. “What’re you doing here?”

My mother opened her mouth to say something, but my father cut her off. “Just came to visit Nick,” he said as he walked around the corner of the island. “Didn’t expect to see you here, love,” he smiled and kissed the top of my head. My mother scowled at the two of us.

“Erm, yeah,” I mumbled awkwardly, my gaze shifting between the three of them, “surprise.”

“When did you get back?” my mother asked curtly.

She had never been like this toward me before, but I supposed that was because the last time I saw her, I hadn’t left for New York yet. I deserved it.

“’Bout,” I glanced at Nick for a brief moment, “two weeks ago?”

“When were you planning on tell us?” she asked.

“Uh- I dun-”

“Catherine, relax,” my dad said softly, placing a hand on my shoulder.

She shot him a quick look before turning back to me. “Are you working?”

“Looking,” I replied meekly.

“Planning on going to school?”

I shook my head as my dad peered down at me in disbelief. I already knew where he was headed and I really didn’t want to deal with that. Leave it to my parents to spoil a genuinely good morning.

“Cammie,” he began, sliding the sketchbook toward us, “you have a real talent!”

“Dad, please,” I said as I watched him flip through the pages, my headache returning with full force. I shut my eyes and stared down at the patterns in the granite, wishing I could run upstairs and go back to sleep.

“Your father’s right.”

My eyes opened slowly to reveal my mother, a soft semblance of a smile on her face. I was a bit confused really, but my features softened slightly. Then I remembered that even if I wanted to I couldn’t.

I shook my head at them, “I can’t.”

“Why not?” my dad asked, his voice raised.

“Because,” I said through a frustrated groan, “do you really think I’ll be accepted?”

“I think if you put your min-”

“Come off it, dad,” I interrupted him. I was exhausted and I really didn’t want to listen to my parents give me some sort of inspirational lecture, even if they were just trying to help.

“Camden,” Nick warned, his arms crossed over his chest. I gave him a sideways glance and returned to staring at the counter.

“What’s the hurt in applying, Camden?” my mother asked, taking a sip of her tea and tucking a rogue strand of mousy brown hair into her low bun.

I stared at her, my nerves easing slightly. My mother had always had that effect on me. When I came home from Secondary to tell her how David Hillingsley and his band of twats started making fun of my lack of curves, my mother peered at me over the rim of her dainty glasses. “You don’t need bigger boobs,” she told me, her voice calm, “you need to read bigger books.”

She was my voice of reason, something I was constantly in need of, and she knew it. I think that deep down she wanted me to be more sensible, to have a better head on my shoulders, but somewhere between being called into the dean’s office for that first cigarette when I was thirteen and essentially running away from home at seventeen, I think she accepted that I needed her. I just don’t know if I have yet.

“There isn’t,” I mumbled, barely audible.

“Hmm?” she prodded, eyebrows raised.

I rolled my eyes and looked up her, her brown eyes calm but strong as they stared into my hazel ones. “There isn’t,” I stated, clear enough for all three of them.