Captured

The next days – no, scratch that – the next weeks, I was whirling with emotions and it went out of control. To put it with utmost subtlety, I wasn’t myself, and everyone agreed it was because of Harry.

That day after I discovered Harry’s note on my bed, Louis came in to check on me. He brought with him cheeseburger and thought it would compel me to get off bed. I’ve been too cozy with how I was just under the sheets, so there was no way his cheeseburger strategy was going to work.

Instead, I took the crumpled paper from my bedside table and threw it at him.

Louis looked puzzled. “I don’t even know what this means.”

“It means that Harry is, and will always and forever be an arrogant self-righteous brute,” I started saying, knowing that the only way Louis was going to leave me alone is if I spilled the beans, “We buried the hatchet, and celebrated our newfound friendship over coffee. He said he’s glad we’re finally friends. Fifteen minutes later, he dances me around the fountain and tells me that he wants to be more than friends. And then he tucks me in bed and when I woke up, I find that stupid note.”
I was aware of how I spoke too fast, but Louis was able to catch up. “And you’re mad because he wants you to forget whatever he said? I thought you hated him.”

“I’m not mad.”

“If you’re not mad, you should get out this dark place and live your life. Unless, you still need more time to contemplate over your feelings for Harry.”

“I don’t need to contemplate over my feelings for Harry because they don’t exist.”

Louis shot me a condemnatory look.

“I don’t care what you think, Louis. Just go away.”

“Well, it kind of makes sense now,” he said.

“What makes sense?”

“Harry asked our tour manager this morning if we could leave early for our show in California,” Louis said it coolly, as if it would maintain my composure, but by then, my blood was boiling already, “We’re flying tomorrow.”

That very next day, I received a message from Zayn, who that time was at John F. Kennedy International Airport already, waiting for their plane to hover them off to the other side of America. I was in school, finishing an essay in English Literature class when my iPhone buzzed, “Hey Austin, we’re about to board. I’m sorry I couldn’t visit you yesterday. Tomo told me what happened. I swear, we’re not going to beat the crap out of him, but we’ll try our best to put some sense into his head. If you ever need someone to talk to, you have my number. Take care, Austin. See you soon.”

I would have wanted Zayn to be there. All those conversations we had have been really nice. Zayn is like the British version of Marcus. We talk about random stuff and he says just the right things at the right time.

Marcus, on the other hand, was out of the picture at that moment. He came back from Maryland a week after the ball, and the first thing he did was go to my house in Battery Park City to apologize for revealing my deepest darkest secrets to Harry. I ignored him for days, but when I was already losing my mind, I ended up crashing his place in Bronx.

He immediately gave me a bone-crushing hug. “I missed you, gummy bears.”

Their family lives in the Upper East Side, but two years ago, Marcus decided to move out and bought a two-floor apartment as his temporary residence while he moved from one state to another as part of his job in Summit Publishing.

The interior of the place had baroque elements everywhere. From the entrance door you’d see his kitchen slash dining island, the only part of the house that had plain black wallpaper. Adjacent to it was his living room, dramatic and extravagant with the chandelier and capitonné leather couch and modern furniture. The walls were decorated with ornate designs and the ceilings were painted white, LED illumination all over, creating a harmonic contrast of sophistication and simplicity. The velvet brown spiral staircase that led to his bedroom set a calming atmosphere to entire scheme.

No matter how Marcus tried to get away from the limelight, his family’s reputation in the banking industry, the aristocracy, he still couldn’t get over the over-the-top architecture that he’s used to his entire life.

That night, I sat on his expensive couch, staring out the window and into the Bronx skyline. Marcus returned from his kitchen island, two mugs of eggnog latte in his hands, and then started talking. “Bridget and I had lunch today. She’s worried about you, says you go to school but don’t talk much. You don’t even make fun of Mister Powell anymore. And that you couldn’t survive a Harry Styles-related conversation.”

It’s true. Bridget loved to talk about One Direction of course, and most especially about Niall and how they’re planning to let their relationship out in the public soon. And each conversation led to the mention of Harry’s name, and the touchy topic of how bizarre the night of Valentine’s Ball was.

Most of the time I’d shift into a different matter, but when I’m not really in a good mood, I’d just simply snap.

“I’ve been so hard on Bridget lately. God, I feel so bad.” I propped the rest of my body up on the couch and tried to be comfortable.

“Harry’s gotten under your skin, hasn’t he?” he asked then took a long sip of his eggnog latte.
I stared at Marcus, confused.

“You said you hated him, but maybe you don’t. Let’s just say I know how to psychoanalyze people, especially my little sister and you. We all know how Bridget is fond of dating older guys because she likes how they can be brooding and stable in life, and well overprotective of her. But Bridget is free and easy, and has the emotional quotient of a ten-year old girl. She likes to party and swoons over boy bands. That’s why her relationships never last. Bridget swore it’s never going to work out with the naive kind of boys, but she’s with Niall, who is such an extrovert, can sometimes be very immature, and is one naughty leprechaun, as Bridget says it. Well, it’s really disgusting, but they’re attracted to each other.”

I nodded to the naughty leprechaun part, but mostly to how it was all true.

“And by hook or by crook or somehow in a weird kind of way, it’s parallel to your situation with Harry,” Marcus continued, “You always tell me that you can’t stand his presence, but you talk about him. A lot. I know you’re seeing that Zayn guy and Bridge told me he likes you so much, but you’ve never mentioned him to me. Or to Bridget. You say you hate Harry, but deep inside there’s something more. He’s affected your actions.”

I took a deep, heavy sigh. “He’s been affecting my actions because he’s been nothing but misery.”

“You dream about him, right? And they’re related to your mom? Maybe somewhere along the way you’ve realized that you’re also scared of hurting Harry’s emotions. Like I said, he’s gotten under your skin.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t, or you don’t want to?”

I was silent for the rest of the night. After that I decided to go to Bridget and apologize for treating her poorly. The rest of the days became somewhat normal. Zayn would call to say hello, or it’s the other way around. Sometimes, the other boys would talk to me too, but they were also sensitive enough not to mention anything about Harry. I liked it that way.

I spent an awful lot of time in school. Completing my application forms for Brown consumed most of my time, knowing that my father was going to arrive soon from his business trip. I was also making up for all my bad records at Everson Prep mostly because I needed to have a good-looking application form. “This is strange,” Mister Powell once said when we crossed paths in the library.

Moreover, I have been compiling my perfect portfolio for Rhode Island School of Design, and casually shooting some other stuff on my downtime.

Yes, the rest of the days were seamlessly ordinary. But every day, Marcus’s question woke up with me, and I knew exactly the answer to it.

I didn’t want to understand. Because if I did, it would mean that there is indeed something more than just hating Harry Styles.