Heavy Heart

Friday evening Daria was not going out with her girlfriends to the pubs downtown Birmingham, to scour for drunken lads to kiss with restless lips and dance with listless legs. She was not going to lay around in the eight-man at the end of the hall and listen to them chatter about everything and nothing at the same time. Instead, she was taking the coach to London to have dinner at Harry’s. He was going to cook for her.

Daria caught the bus in the best outfit she could scrounge from her friends and watched England pass by out her window, periodically stopping her wandering thoughts to get some reading for her classes done. Night was beginning to fall by the time she reached the city, the starlit skyline glimmering on the river. From the bus stop, she took a taxi to Harry’s house in North London, tipping the cab driver sparingly when he dropped her off.

Before he could scold her for the meagerness, she slipped out from the car and ran up to the front gate. Pressing the button on the intercom, she greeted, “Haz, let me in! I can’t wait any longer to sample your superb culinary skills!”

“You cheeky minx,” he replied with a chuckle before buzzing her through, the gates opening to reveal an entrance to a driveway. An odd feeling came over her, like someone was watching her, but she looked up to see a camera on the gate and the feeling went away. Daria cast her gaze upon the house, a stunningly large white building, with a lush green lawn and a fancy looking garage. She immediately tried to compartmentalize her awe, feeling it would be rude to make a fuss over it. It was just so different from her simple colonial home in Middletown, glamorous and opulent. She trotted up the front steps to find Harry already standing on the door, wearing an apron covered in flour.

“Hey,” he greeted her with a grin. When she grew close enough, he planted a firm yet sweet kiss on her lips, sending a jolt of electricity through Daria’s bones. She wondered if she would ever get used to the feeling of his kisses, the way they turned her stomach into excited knots and sent an instant rush of blush to her cheeks.

“Hey yourself,” she replied, wiping a bit of flour from his cheek. “What on Earth are you making?”

“You’ll have to wait and see once we get to the kitchen,” he answered, batting her hand away from his face. “I kind of had a mishap with some flour, but not to worry. It’ll all work out just fine. But first, a tour.”

He took her hand and led her inside, and even just the first glimpse at the entryway took her breath away. Everything was immaculately decorated, even more so than Litzy’s posh accommodations in Sloane Square, down to the very feet on the tables in the foyer.

“There is absolutely no way you did this yourself,” she deadpanned, glancing between around the corner into the next room and then back to Harry. He was laughing, nervously mussing his hair.

“Of course not,” he confessed, leading her into the next room even more detailed than the first. “Do you think I give a fuck about lampshades? My manager helped me hire a decorator so it would look ‘presentable’ for guests.”

Daria nodded, a little dumbfounded, as she trailed behind him through the rest of the house, each room equally beautiful. It was just so different from everything she was used to in Connecticut, the simplicity of her lifestyle, that Harry’s positively shocked her. But she knew how meaningful it was for him to invite her over, so she smiled and nodded along as he took her on a tour. It wasn’t until they reached the kitchen that she was truly awed.

He’d set out all sorts of supplies – tubs of sugar, flour, baking soda and eggs, little glass bottles of extract that had French labels, containers of sprinkles and dragées. Daria’s heart stopped at the sight of it all, the most exquisite spread of supplies she’d ever seen outside of Carla’s kitchen at Yellow Spoon. She longed to run and submerge her hands in the bowl of sugar just to feel the grains on her hands again.

“We’re gonna bake,” he chimed with a grin, “while dinner’s in the oven.”

“You certainly do know how to charm a woman Harry Styles,” Daria said breathlessly, a similar smile coming to her lips.

“I would say I certainly know how to charm my woman,” he quipped, pressing a quick kiss to her temple before going deeper into the kitchen. “Come on, I’m ready for my lesson now.”

Daria fell into a fit of laughter as she followed him, trying to sort out what she would make with all the supplies in front of her. “Do you have fruit?” she asked, and Harry nodded, pointing to the fridge.

Then they whipped into a frenzy of getting things together, Daria instructing him to mix together the right amount of dry ingredients into a bowl, showing how to sift them perfectly into the wet ingredients to make a batter for a cake. She brought some berries to a simmer on the stove, juicing them for all their dark, syrupy color in a splash of lemon juice, instructing Harry to stir them periodically.

He chased her around the kitchen with the mixing spoon, dribbling cake batter all over the tile floors, trying to get the tip of her nose. She tossed berries into his mouth from across the room to see if he could catch them, most of which he did with ease. When she instructed him to whip some heavy cream into soft peaks, he attempted to make a mountain range for her in the bowl, the little summits bowing over with the weight. Finally, he got her cheek with some whipped cream when she was least expecting it and licked it off, much to Daria’s chagrin.

While she wouldn’t admit it, Daria was in heaven. The fact that Harry had put together the amount of ingredients just for her, just to spend time with her doing something that she really loved, was amazing to her. No one had ever done anything like that for her, not even for a birthday or Christmas, much less a normal Friday night. She watched him with a quiet smile as he layered the cake, fruit, and whipped cream in little champagne flutes, as per her request, to make a trifle. Daria was admittedly impressed with her British flare.

“Would you get drinks together while I serve up dinner?” he asked, and Daria was happy to oblige. She poured them glasses of wine from an open bottle in his fridge while he plated the pasta shells stuffed with cheese, chicken and vegetables, a heavenly aroma wafting through the kitchen. She sat at the table with her glass of wine laced between her fingers, watching Harry as he balanced the plates and placed them deftly on the table.

“I reckon this is a proper date, don’t you?” he asked, seeking her approval.

“You win this time, Styles,” she hummed, taking another sip of the dry, white wine. “We’ll see if this food is a slam dunk or not, though.”

“I promise you, it will be,” he insisted, passing her a fork and knife. “Go ahead, tell me how great it is. I’m confident in it.”

They were quiet for a moment as they took their first bites, the flavor melting on Daria’s tongue and blending impossibly well. She closed her eyes and smiled, nodding with admiration, eliciting a laugh from Harry. In the silence, she realized a track playing in the background that she hadn’t noticed before. A jazz tune, one that she was familiar with, a tune she knew all the words to.

“Is this Count Basie and Frank Sinatra?” she asked suddenly, catching Harry off guard. “Fly Me To The Moon?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “I’ve been playing this album all night. All sorts of good ones.”

Daria beamed, popping another bite of pasta in her mouth. “This is my kind of music,” she cheered, humming along to the tune as she swallowed. She was surprised that Harry would have this sort of music in his repertoire, especially after listening to One Direction. There was a very distinct difference between the two genres, to say the least.

“Anything but Christmas music,” Harry muttered before taking a long swig of his wine. “I’m starting to go insane in that studio. I swear we’ve recorded close to a fifty songs for the label to choose from, just the vocals that is. But still, it’s just insane.”

“Oh, don’t be a scrooge,” Daria teased quietly, tucking a stray strand of hair from her bun behind her ear. “Just think of all the little girls who are absolutely going to die over how dreamy your voice sounds on ‘Good King Wenceslas.’”

Harry gave her a pointed look, causing her to shut up straight away. “What’s your favorite Christmas song, then? If you must be so sassy?”

“I’ll Be Home For Christmas,” Daria said without missing a beat. She always played it when her dad was away on business right before the holidays, knowing that finally when the holidays rolled around, her father would be by her side. It never made her particularly sad, only when she listened to it with her mother and the sadness was so clear in her eyes. For Daria, alone at night, it was like a hug straight from her father. Harry, knowing none of this, nodded his head and continued on his way.

They talked over dinner for hours, until the candles had melted into little puddles of wax at the base, the flames extinguishing on their very own. Daria glanced at the clock only to see that it was nearly midnight, and stood up with a start.

“Harry!” she cried. “I’ve missed my bus back! The last left at eleven!”

A small smirk curved Harry’s lips, his green eyes glinting with mischief. It then occurred to Daria that Harry had no qualms with her not going back to Birmingham that night. “It’ll just be easier for going to my parents tomorrow anyway,” he explained. “We can just drive straight there together. It’s not a big deal Daria.”

“But I don’t have a toothbrush! Or pajamas! Or anything to wear tomorrow!” she protested, the nerves beginning to petrify her. She was terrified of showing up at Anne and Robin’s unprepared, looking sluggish and dirty. Even more to the point, she was terrified of showing up at their house and having them find out that she and Harry were dating. They still hadn’t told his parents about their relationship, again by Daria’s request, and it would be difficult for her to lie to Anne about why she was such a wreck.

“Oh for God’s sake, we’ll figure it out,” he chided, poking her teasingly in the cheek before collecting her plate and bringing it to the sink. “Besides, it’s too late to do anything about it anyway. Can we eat dessert now?”

Daria was amazed at Harry’s ability to nonchalantly flick off a situation that had sent her into full-blown crisis mode just moments earlier. He turned to her with a trifle glass in each hand, the winning smile on his face. “Can we eat them in bed?”

She pressed her face into her hands for a moment, exuding a decompressing laugh. Harry’s carefree nature often bordered on childishness, but she couldn’t help but be drawn to it. She followed him upstairs to his room, curling up in his lush bed with him, scooping trifle from the flute with a spoon.

“This is phenomenal,” Harry breathed after his second bite, resting his head back on the headboard. “Not that I expected anything less.”

“Thank you,” she replied. When they had finished eating, Harry outfitted her with a pair of sweats and an old t-shirt, scrounging up a toothbrush still in the package and getting ready alongside her in the enormous bathroom. Daria’s heart raced in her chest, nervous for what would happen next. She’d never spent the night at a boy’s house before, much less a boy she’d ever cared about. When she crawled in bed with Harry, she half expected him to jump her bones right then and there.

Instead, he pulled a book from his bedside table, a copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. “Do you much like reading out loud?” he probed with a small half smile, waving the book around a little in the light of the lamp. Daria shrugged.

“It’s just, I like to read a little before I go to bed,” he explained, opening the book to the chapter marked with a slight bend in the corner of the page. “And I figured I might share it with you. It’d be a little rude to just read by myself, don’t you think?”

Daria nodded and breathed a sigh of relief, struggling to repress a laugh. She’d positively freaked out when all Harry wanted to do before bed was read. “If you’d like to read to me, I definitely won’t say no.”

She laid her head on his chest as he cleared his throat to speak, the sound of his heart beating providing a melodic backdrop to the sound of his voice. His voice arched and bowed with the dialogue, near perfect for reading aloud. He was confident while he read, rarely messing up the wording, even providing voices for some of the characters, mainly that of Gatsby. In time, she’d fallen asleep to the methodic beat of his heart.

In the morning, she awoke to see Harry already up, brushing his teeth in the bathroom. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and smiled to him, receiving a wave in response. Harry spit out the wash of his toothpaste in the sink, wiping his mouth before coming back into the room.

“I was thinking we could go grab lunch before we drive all the way out to Holmes Chapel,” he suggested, sitting down on the bed with her. “We could even stop by Boots if you’re really going to be so worried about looking nice for my mum.”

Daria nodded, hopping out of bed. “Lunch sounds great,” she replied. “I’m starving.” She changed out of his sleep clothes and returned her jeans to her legs, pulling one of Harry’s hoodies on over her head. After getting ready the rest of the way, she went downstairs to find Harry sitting by the door, all ready to go.

“Shall we?” he asked, taking her hand, throwing open the door. The day was a bit grey, ready for a typical London rain at any moment. They decided to brave the weather and go outside, but what happened next Daria hadn’t expected.

There was a multitude of flashing lights and loud voices from outside the gate, calling Harry’s name and asking at the top of their lungs. “Shit,” Harry muttered, picking up the pace and dragging Daria to the car. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think the paparazzi would be waiting.”

Daria’s heart raced, her hand trembling uncontrollably in Harry’s tight grip. The breath went right out of her lungs as he stuffed her unceremoniously into the car, opening the gate to back out of the driveway through the horde. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, the flash bulbs in the windows brighter than ever as they parted the crowd with Harry’s car. Men tapped on the window with their grimy fingers, trying to get a better shot of her.

As they sped away from Harry’s, Daria glanced at him horrified eyes, traumatized. His lips were pressed into a grim line, gaze apologetic but helpless.

They both knew their secret was out.