Damn This Wild Young Heart.

“Lola, you can start closing up if you want,” Emma, the owner of Swifties Organic Ice Cream Co. called from the back. She was in her early thirties, with wild blonde hair and an ever-present polka dotted apron. She hired me on a limb, after I begged and begged for three weeks straight, each afternoon spent coming into the shop, buying a small pistachio cone, and wearing her down. It worked in the end and I was doing okay so far, dutifully scooping ice cream for the hip mommy-blogger crowd and the Haight-Ashbury tourists who didn’t feel like braving the line at Ben & Jerry’s.

“Two steps ahead of you, boss lady,” I called back, already cleaning up the counters and closing down the freezer. We’d been empty for the past fifteen minutes, because it was a boring Tuesday night and the San Francisco fog was particularly thick, even in June.

I turned up the radio, humming along as I continued scrubbing down the counters and the top of the ice cream lids. Weekday nights were easy, calm compared to the hustle and bustle of the weekends and customers coming in at 8:59, expecting a savored scoop of French vanilla topped with raspberry sauce.

I was singing along to Selena Gomez at this point in the cleaning process, my hips swinging as I Cloroxed the counters around me and moved to wipe down the tables.

The bell on the door sounded and I swiveled towards the clock. “Seriously?” I muttered under my breath, as it was 8:54 and were these people unaware that sometimes a homegirl has plans and wants to actually leave on time?

With a sigh and an attempt at a smile, I turned around.

There was a boy standing in the middle of the lobby, in dark jeans, sunglasses, and a dark sweatshirt, the hood pulled up around his face. My hands gripped the counter.

Seriously? A Tuesday? We were getting robbed on a Tuesday?

“Um--,” I started, the word getting stuck in my throat, but I was cut off abruptly.

“I will pay you two hundred dollars if you hide me.” The boy said, his words coming quickly, before he turned to look behind him, through the window.

“From the police?” I asked.

“Worse, actually. Please.” His shoulders were heaving and he sounded winded, his body heaving.

Of all the things that I should’ve been doing on that Tuesday night, letting a stranger hide in the creamery was not on numbers one through five. He could be a murderer, a robber, or worse, and yet I still numbly nodded my head, motioned for behind the counter, and went to turn the sign on the door from ‘open’ to ‘closed’.

He slunk back against the wall. The hood on his head fell off, revealing a mop of curly, murky brown hair, a disarray across his forehead.

I continued to look at him for a second, eyes narrowed in scrutiny, before I went back to the tedious job of wiping down the counters and organizing the freezer. My attention span was jilted by the fact that okay, at least we weren’t getting robbed, but I knew that face. I knew that face in the way that you know commercial jingles and restaurant catch phrases without really paying attention, the information wedged somewhere in the recesses of your brain, not because you actively wanted to know, but because there was no way to escape. There was an international pop star leaning against the wall of the creamery.

I laughed under my breath. “This is going to be the best story ever.” I muttered to myself.

“What’s your name?” I asked. I knew his face, but there were like, five other people in that band and all of their names seemed decidedly British. Edward was on the tip of my tongue but I wasn’t sure if I had anything other than stereotyping to back that up.

“Harry.” He said, and then he smiled. “And you are?”

“Lola. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Harry. May I ask what force has you running into empty ice cream shops at night?”

Harry sighed and let out a dry laugh. “Funny story, that one. Terribly boring, though.” He was trying to avoid the question and he kept looking at his phone, thumbs scrolling across the screen.

“I absolutely love boring stories.” I provided. “Especially when I have the inside of a freezer to scrub.” I looked up at, a cheeky smile on my face, before leaning down and beginning an intense physical attack on the side of the freezer.

“I was being…,” He struggled for the right word. “…chased? Or followed? And I needed an escape.”

I laughed to myself, my smile hidden as my body remained tucked inside of the freezer. “Chased by what, exactly?”

He hesitated, before providing quickly. “Drug dealers. Or muggers. Actually, both. Drug dealers and muggers.”

This time I couldn’t conceal my laughter, my body shaking as I scrapped against the side of the freezer. The last bit of ice cream was off and the metal was shiny and clean, so I stood back up to my full height.

“You know, I’ve heard celebrities call their fans some pretty crazy things, but never drug dealers and muggers. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to know that you think so highly of them.”

“Oh." He shifted awkwardly. "You know who I am, then?”

I rolled my eyes. “Is there anyone under the age of 30 in America who doesn’t?”

Harry shrugged his shoulders, as if waging that yes; I had made a fair point, before smiling thankfully at me. “Thank you for the escape route, then. I adore our fans, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes they can be a little much.”

“Isn’t that why you have like, a jillion security guards?” I closed the freezer door, did one last sweep across the counter with my towel, and started untying my apron from around my waist.

“I might have accidentally ditched them along the way.” He admitted.

“Accidentally?” I asked.

“Accidentally on purpose.” He confirmed.

I laughed, before turning away from him. “Emma?” I called out.

“Yes?”

“It’s all clean out front. Do you need anything else?”

“No, that’s fine. I’m going to finish this batch and then count down the register. Thanks, Lola!”

“See you tomorrow.” I grabbed my bag from under the counter and shrugged on my sweater.

Harry was looking right at me as I emerged from behind the counter, moving my legs to stand directly in front of him. “Are you planning on staying here all night?”

“No. I was planning on exploring San Francisco a bit, but that plan fell through.” His voice was low, rugged, and languid, like it took tremendous effort to get each word out. “Do you know what street we’re on? “

“Yes.” I said. I was staring at him, at the sweeping hair across his forehead and the bit of acne on his cheek and the all-too familiar color of his eyes. I’d seen this face on posters, billboards, t-shirts, and now he was standing in front of me and I was debating whether or not I should do what I did next.

Probably, I shouldn’t have. I should’ve given him the proper street name and let him make his escape from there. I should’ve made my way to the rooftop party Dakota had texted me about, had a few drinks, danced with my friends, and then gone home and late-night ordered Chinese. I should’ve over exaggerated my celebrity spotting and used Mr.Celebrity’s late night plea for help as story material for the next five weeks. I should’ve just left it at that.

But I was bored and feeling slightly adventurous and I was thinking, when is the next time you’re going to talk to him? Never, that’s when, Lola, so take a chance. Maybe I should’ve been flustered and fumbling and embarrassed and shocked, but all I was thinking about was how he looked slightly disappointed and also like he desperately needed a night out.

So I did what I did next, even though I probably shouldn’t have, even though he was probably going to laugh at me and go on his merry way anyway.

“You said you were exploring San Francisco?” I asked.

He nodded, his eyes a bit narrowed in confusion. “Wanted to see the city at night,” he said.

“Do you want to do some exploring with me, then?” Whoever was asking him this question sounded self-assured and confident and much, much cooler than Actual Lola, who was normally a bit of fumbling mess.

“Right now?” He asked.

“You don’t have anything else to do, do you, except for ditch security guards and run from overly-adoring fans? And who better to show you around San Francisco than a native?”

There was a pause for a second, but only a small one, before the boy in front of me flashed a large smile, and nodded his head slowly.

“Sure,” he said, shoving his phone back into his pocket. “Lead the way.”