Code of Ethics

“So this is going to be our love nest?”

I glanced over at Harry so he could see me roll my eyes. “No. This is going to be my home.” Walking around, I tried to picture what could go where. Once I got enough money for furniture, anyway, which was probably not going to be for a decent amount of time.

“If it’s going to be a love nest, you’re going to need a bed.”

“Harry, shut up,” I laughed. “But I have a bed and a night table and a bureau, but that’s it. That’s all I had at Marie’s apartment.”

The second I said my old roommate’s name, I had flashes of the phone conversation with her. She’d been stiff and awkward, answering all of my questions with as few words as possible, like some sort of zombie. She never apologized or even acknowledged our blow-out fight at all. Or steering Harry in my direction, for that matter.

All that came out of the conversation was that I could go over while she was in class on Wednesday morning. Harry had said he would help me, but I shrugged him off, saying that he couldn’t risk the possible publicity.

“So the rest of this place is going to be empty?” Harry sounded wistful as he brushed his hand against the granite countertop, almost longingly. I wanted to ask him what he was thinking about, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment. He looked so innocent and vulnerable, so opposite the cocky bastard he’d been a few minutes previously.

“Basically.” God, the carpet was so clean. I squatted down and ran my fingers through it, shocked at how light the tan color was. Maybe I’d grown a little too accustomed to the shitty, dusty motel room. “I move in tomorrow.”

“But you can’t get your stuff until Wednesday,” he repeated, sounding almost distracted. “So are you just going to sleep on the floor?”

“I’ve been through worse,” I replied vaguely.

“I can tell,” he murmured, coming over and wrapping his hands around my waist, burying his face in my neck. His breath was warm as it spanned across my collarbone, and I closed my eyes in contentment, trying to savor the smell and feel of him.

Being with him felt right and serene, and just as I started to think about how lucky I was that we’d reconciled, he spoke again and broke the spell. “I’m so sorry that I have to do this to you.”

“Do what?” I stepped out of his arms and turned to face him, starting to feel my heart pound in my chest. I couldn’t take any more heartbreak and pain, and his expression dripped with bad news, so I was terrified.

“See you in secret.” Oh, thank God. “I wish that my whole existence wasn’t on the line, that we were able to walk down the street together, hand-in-hand, and you wouldn’t have to worry about a thing.”

“It’s okay,” I assured him. “I really do understand.”

“I know you do.” But instead of the statement sounding relieved, he sounded bitter. “But it shouldn’t be this way.”

There was another long silence where neither of us knew what to say. It was clear I couldn’t comfort him, since I didn’t understand what he was going through, really.

“Sometimes,” he said so quietly that I almost couldn’t hear him, “I wish that I weren’t famous. That all the glitz and the glamour and the rumors and screaming fans would all just disappear, and I could be normal again. I love singing, and I thought this would be everything I ever wanted, but sometimes I just feel…trapped. Like these people don’t even love me, but they love who they think they know, who they think I am, and when they get glimpses of the real person, they get outraged. This was nothing like I thought it would be.”

That, I understood. Getting labeled as a slut, having every piece of evidence that I presented against it rejected. I would always be a slut. Just like Harry would always be the charming pop star who couldn’t date anyone unless his fans approved.

“Harry, you can’t mean that.” I spoke as softly as I could as I approached him again, like an experienced trainer soothed a raging, dangerous animal. “Performing for all those people and getting all the attention is everything you ever wanted, isn’t it?”

“I guess. But sometimes it just feels like I’m suffocating, or drowning, and no matter how much I struggle, I still can’t breathe.” He ran a hand through his curls, and I could hear him sniffle, like he was about ten seconds away from breaking down.

I trapped him in an embrace so tight that I could feel the muscles straining in my arms, and he reciprocated as well as he could. I could feel his heart pounding against my chest as he struggled to calm himself down from the anger and frustration that had accumulated inside of him.

“God,” he laughed after a while, leaning back and wiping his tear-stained face with his hand, “this is so backwards. Shouldn’t you be the emotional wreck, and I should be comforting you?”

“I’m sorry, but what about this relationship is traditional?” I gave him a small grin and shrugged. “Plus, I’m not exactly the crying type. When I’m upset, I run.”

“How productive of you.”

I pulled out my cell phone and sighed. “And as much as I’d love to stand around and talk to you more, I have to get to work in a few minutes.”

Harry gave me a small smile and kissed me on the forehead, his thumb brushing against my cheekbone. “I’ll see you again as soon as I can, okay?”

I swallowed, my eyes connected to his for a long moment. God, I wanted to call in sick and get someone else to cover my shift, to sit on the insanely-clean carpet and order pizza with Harry, indulging in calories and laughing. I wanted to feel his breath on my skin, sigh when he kissed the pulse on my neck, feel how much he cared about me through his touch.

But I couldn’t. I needed to make money so that I could keep the perfect flat I’d found and get nicer clothes and get some furniture to spruce up my new living space. As much as I wanted to stay with Harry, my needs had to outweigh my wants.

Harry seemed to have taken the daydreaming route with me, and he understood when I’d made my final decision, finally withdrawing his hand and taking a step back. “I’ll talk to you later, Tara.”

“Bye, Harry.”

And I watched him walk out into the hallway, pulling his hood over his head and slipping on a pair of Aviator sunglasses, before closing the door almost silently. He needed to be anonymous, to keep people from questioning what he was doing in the mundane, ordinary flat building.

I let out a long sigh and rubbed my forehead harshly, as if trying to get rid of the guilty thoughts racing through my head. I made my decision, and he hadn’t tried to fight me on it, and there was no reason why I should feel like I just slapped him across the face.

I just hoped that his laugh and joke had meant that he actually felt better about the fame situation, and he wasn’t just doing it to make himself look a little less pathetic.

God, I was a bad girlfriend. Or whatever the fuck I was.