Damn This Wild Young Heart.

I was upset. Maybe it was understandable or maybe it wasn’t, but I wasn’t into debating the semantics of my sadness and hurt as I sat in the passenger seat of Dakota’s borrowed car and cried. I pressed my forehead up against the window, face tilted away from Dakota as I tried to stop my face from completely crumbling.

Dakota was shooting anxious glances my way every few seconds, but she kept her hands purposely gripped on the wheel and her mouth shut. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to hear her sympathetic words or the silent I told you so in her voice, so I turned the radio up and sobbed into the sleeves of my sweater.

I was stupid. I was stupid for allowing my fantasies to run rampant for so long. I was stupid for allowing Harry to weasel into a part of my heart he obviously didn’t want. I was stupid for letting myself get this worked up over a boy I’d spent a few hours with. I was stupid, plain and simple, but acknowledging every stupid mistake I made since nine o’clock Tuesday night to now wasn’t making me feel better. I was using all of my focus on breathing properly and not falling into a deeper round of hysterical fits.

I kept thinking of the way Harry looked when he turned away from me, eyes wide with something that I now could recognize as panic. He could’ve just let me kiss him, some meaningless pressing of lips, and let whatever it was between us fizzle out slowly, missed communication that would end gradually, but he hadn’t. He rejected me in front of fifteen other people and mumbled a few words in goodbye. It was another mysterious action I would add to my list of things I didn’t understand.



Dakota didn’t even ask where I was going when I slipped out of the door early the next morning. She called out a goodbye as I shut the door behind me. It took three Muni stops to get to the MoMA from my apartment and I spent the time staring at the stained carpeting on the floor. My phone was on and tucked into my pocket, but I was afraid of the Internet. In the midst of my emotional fit last night, I deleted all of the social media apps on my phone. I couldn’t bring myself to delete the accounts entirely, but I could stop myself from compulsively checking them.

I’d gotten the tears out last night and now I wasn’t quite sure where I was emotionally. I thought that I was mad. Anger seemed like the most readily available emotion, with the humiliation and hurt close behind. I’d made myself vulnerable; unable to realize that just because Harry might’ve desired me, didn’t mean he valued me. Whatever he felt towards me didn’t particularly matter now.

I was one of the first into the MoMA that morning. There were a few people milling about in the café, but I was sure most of the museum would be empty this early on a Thursday morning.

I bounded up the stairs quickly, starting my usual route from the left, and began to browse. Normally the quiet of the museum relaxed me, the hum of the fluorescent lighting pleasant white noise as I absorbed the art around me. As I moved slowly from piece to piece, I searched for the familiar sense of calm that enveloped me in the MoMA. Instead, I kept thinking of Harry – the look on his face when he stared at the war photographs, the boyish smile the lit up his face when he laughed, the stupidly confusing Instagram picture and the even worse caption – “I think I understand art now.” I’d never gotten my explanation for that, determined to put the conversation aside because I had such faith that there would be time to discuss it later.

Again, I was hit with the sudden wave of how stupid I had been in the last forty-eight hours. My phone buzzed in my pocket, the vibration startling me from my deep train of thought, but I was too much of a coward to look and see who it was. Rationally, I knew that it was probably Dakota or even my mother, but there was the slightest chance that maybe it wasn’t.

I spent the better part of an hour gazing mindlessly around the first floor, before I finally made it up to the second. I was standing in front of a piece of string art, staring intently at the threading and attempting to battle a sudden onslaught of memories when someone cleared their throat beside me.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised with the way things were panning out lately, but seeing Harry standing beside me still sent a jolt through my system. He had a beanie pulled down over his hair, sunglasses off but still tucked inside of his shirt.

“You shouldn’t be here.” I blurted out, giving him a glance before turning and walking away. Already, my heart was racing, his close proximity enough to stir something inside of me.

“I called but you didn’t answer.” He replied in explanation, his footsteps falling out of sync with mine. “Dakota told me where you were--,”

“That still doesn’t mean that you should be here.” I snipped, casting him an annoyed glare as I walked into the next room. The anger resurfaced immediately, the irritation already started to spread as I felt his presence behind me.

He let out a sigh, stopping short next to me. “Lola, I know that you’re mad, but you have to understand that I--,”

“I don’t have to understand anything, Harry.” I cut him off, fixing him with a look. “Now leave.”

He reached up a hand to rub the back of his neck, his body tensing up slightly. “It wasn’t – I didn’t want it to be like that. Dakota told me that you cried, and I swear, it was never my intention to--,” He was tripping over his words, his voice gruff as he spoke. He looked almost apologetic, his eyes shining with something that could’ve damn well been remorse, but I ignored that completely.

“To what, Harry? Have sex with me? Have my name slandered across the internet? Reject me in front of your friends?”

Saying it aloud only made me feel worse, but the look on Harry’s look made me feel slightly better, like I was getting some type of retribution for the hurt he had caused me.

He winced, rubbing a hand along the side of his distressed face. “I’m sorry.” He apologized. “I’m really stupid sometimes.”

“Yes, you are.” I agreed. “Is that all?”

“Can we talk? Please? I need to explain myself and…” He trailed off, before holding up the paper bag in offering.”--I brought croissants.”

It was hard to be mad at Harry when he looked so remorseful; his eyebrows draw together in a fierce furrow as he extended the bag to me, but anger was the easiest emotion to deal with; the tight ball of fury in my stomach was an instant fuel to all of my actions, but it wasn’t the most prominent emotion. I was more hurt than anything; embarrassed, tired, humiliated. I didn’t want to talk to Harry. I didn’t want to talk to anyone – I wanted to ignore the problem until it went away, until the flashbacks of his panicked face stopped haunting me every time I had a free moment.

“I don’t want anything from you, Harry.” I hissed, but there was less fight in my voice than there probably should’ve been. “You’ve already done enough, so if you want to actually do something helpful, you can leave.”

“Damnit, Lola.” Harry’s voice hardened, his face all hard angles, taut jaws and narrowed eyes. “I’m trying to apologize.”

He had the audacity to look frustrated, his face pinched together as he stared at me.

“I really, really don’t want your apology right now.” I continued to put space between us, trying desperately to keep my voice steady as I pointedly looked away from him.

“Then what do you want?” He snapped, voice harsher than I’d ever heard it before. He acted like he had some type of justification for his anger, like he was entitled to be irritated because I wouldn’t speak to him. “I said I’m sorry and I am, but I don’t know what else you want me to do--,”

“I want it to not have happened in the first place!” I cried, whipping around to face him. “The entire night shouldn’t have happened, so unless you can suddenly erase the past day and a half, there’s nothing else you can do except leave me alone!”

We were in another empty part of the museum, but I was still aware of how loud my voice sounded as it echoed through the empty room. I took a steadying breath, ready to find an exit and stop this before it escalated too far.

“I know that it probably shouldn’t have happened!” Harry thundered right back, his face darkened with frustration. “Believe me, I’ve gotten enough shit from everyone to know that, but I’m trying to make it right!”

“Why?” I asked. “Why does it matter if you make it right? You’ve already made your intentions perfectly clear, so why does it matter?”

“You don’t understand--,” He started, a hand raising up to grasp at the hair on his head, the beanie falling off as he ran his fingers through his fringe.

“You’re right, I don’t.” I seethed. “I don’t understand why you posted the pictures if I meant nothing to you. I don’t understand why you left me your number or even invited me to the concert if you didn’t want this to go on anymore. I don’t understand how you could flirt with me one moment and then brush me off the next. I don’t understand any of the shit you do--,”

“Because you won’t let me fucking explain it to you!” He cried, one hand stuck in a mess of curls on top of his head.

“I don’t want your shit stupid explanation!” I yelled back, all thoughts of proper museum etiquette lost at the harshness in his voice. “It doesn’t even matter now; you already got what you wanted!”

Harry’s eyes flashed. “You have no idea what I want.” He snarled. “Why does everyone act like they know what I want better than I do? You have no idea about anything because you won’t let me talk!”

“Okay, fine!” I conceded, throwing my hands up in exasperation. “Talk! Go!”

I didn’t want to have this conversation with Harry, especially in the middle of the MoMA, because it would probably just bring on a new round of hurt. Maybe his explanation would help him, but his reasoning for why he didn’t like me as much as I liked him wasn’t going to help me at all. My face was flushed in anger as I stared at him, hands shaking as he stood in front of me.

Instantly, Harry was fumbling. His shoulders dropped and his voice lost the edge as he struggled with what to say. “I just – I didn’t want to hurt you, okay? I’d already done some damage and I didn’t want to make things worse.”

I blinked at him owlishly, forcing my breathing to steady. He didn’t want to hurt me? That was his entire justification? Because public rejection was so much better?

“I just- I wanted--,” he stammered nervously, inhaling deeply as he looked anywhere but at me. “Dakota told me that you were upset about the pictures and I – I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that –,”

“You’re right.” I interrupted. “You shouldn’t have. I specifically told you not to and then you went and did it anyway.”

“You didn’t tell me until after!” He defended. “I just – it was nice, okay? To have fun and not – not think for a night! To not have to constantly worry about what I was saying or who I was saying it to, but to have none of it matter around you. I know that I fucked up, that I’m the biggest wanker on this side of the continent, but I’m sorry. I’m sorry for posting the pictures – I was feeling impulsive and stupid – but I honestly didn’t think that it was a big deal until after you told me. I took them down right after, but all I was ever trying to do was protect you.”

He stepped closer to me, closing the safe gap I’d put between us. He had an intense look in his eye, something between
determination and despair and it was making my heart race. I didn’t want to be understanding, compassionate Lola. I didn’t want to take his explanation and let him off the hook just because he batted a few eye lashes and spewed some pretty words.

The wound was too fresh for the forgiveness to come that easy, but I could feel it begin to creep its way in and that wasn’t allowed, so I reacted with the only way I really knew how – anger.

“Let’s look at how that worked out?” I bit out, shaking my head at him crossly. “I’m getting stalked by teenager girls because of you and you don’t even have the decency to treat me like a decent human being. You give me some shitty explanation about how you don’t want to hurt me – you’ve already done that, Harry! It’s a bit too late for apologies, don’t you think?”

“I’m trying, alright?” He snapped right back, all of the softness suddenly lost from his face as his frustration returned. “I’m trying to make it right. I’m an arsehole, I’m a prick, I made you upset and I made you cry and I should burn in the fiery pits of hell – I get it. I’m an awful fucking person, but damnit, Lola, I was trying to do the right thing!” The normal slow draw of his words quickened as he fumed back at me, the usual confident composure gone as we argued.

“By embarrassing me? By making me feel stupid in front of everyone? How is that doing the right thing?”

“I don’t know!” His hands were moving wildly, his face flushed as he stared down at me. “I just – I don’t know!”

I wanted to yell at him. I wanted to scream at him that he needed to get his shit together, straighten whatever the fuck was wrong with him and leave me alone, but I didn’t get the chance to, because all of the sudden there was a figure approaching us, face set in a grim line.

“This is not the place for your argument.” The security guard huffed, fixing both Harry and I with a glare. “Both of you need to take it outside.”

I stared at him incredulously for a moment, my mouth hanging open in shock, before I shut my jaw and turned towards the exit. I attempted to throw Harry my most scathing look as I passed, but I knew that the anger I had so tenaciously held onto previously was escaping as I made my way through the museum. I knew Harry was following behind me as I made my way down the stairs, the heels of his boots making noise against the marble floor, but I was too upset to speak. I reached a hand up to clutch at my chest as the familiar seeds of embarrassment spread through me yet again.

I’d never been kicked out of anywhere in my entire life, let alone kicked out of my sanctuary. The immediate shame that I felt overshadowed however pissed I was at Harry.

It wasn’t fair, what he was doing to me. The electric current that I was so sure was running between us felt toxic now. I wanted him away from me, because I’d done more embarrassing and shameful things in my span of knowing him than I had in the entire year I’d been in San Francisco.

I made it out of the doors with a huff, moving my legs faster in an attempt to get away from him. The street outside wasn’t very busy, the stream of pedestrians slow as they walked along the sidewalk.

“Lola.”

I didn’t answer, didn’t even dare to turn around as I walked, because already I knew that the anger and shame were turning into something else. The tears were building behind my eyes, my face already crumbling as I made my way down the street. I kept my head tucked down, hair falling in front of my face as I moved.

In the past forty-eight hours of knowing Harry, he had caused me more emotional distress than I’d had in the previous five months. He’d made me cry twice, he’d gotten me kicked out my favorite place in the entire world, and he made me feel insignificant.

“Lola,” he called after me, but his voice was closer than I would’ve liked.

He reached out and grabbed my arm, his hand finding the crook of my elbow and pulling me back towards him. I struggled against his grip, but his fingers were like a vice around my limb.

“Just leave me alone.” I mumbled, my voice cracking as I reached up and desperately tried to wipe some of the moisture off of my face. “Please just leave me alone.”

He was tugging me towards him, one of his arms wrapping around my waist before I could even protest. I wanted to be angry – seething, yelling rage, but the fight dropped out of me the second I stepped out of the MoMA. I didn’t want to fight with him anymore. I didn’t want to fight with anyone. I wanted to go home and sleep for the next forty-eight hours.

Harry pulled me towards him, arms tightening around my torso. I stayed slack against him, trying to stop the tears from falling as I shook. My breathing was labored, shaky gasps of air as I tried to calm down.

“I’m an idiot.” He mumbled against my hair. “I can’t seem to stop fucking up with you.”

I brought a hand up between us to wipe my eyes and then pulled away from him, shaking out of his grasp as I turned to face the street. I blinked away the next onslaught of tears and tried to talk myself back into the resolve.

Be angry, be angry, be angry. I repeated to myself, because anger was better than tears in the morning in the middle of San Francisco, but I so, so wasn’t angry anymore.

“I don’t understand you at all.” I told him as I continued to swipe at my eyes. “You’re so hot and cold that it doesn’t make sense.”

“I know.” He reached a hand out towards me, his fingers just grazing my shoulder. I didn’t pull away and he stepped closer.

“You got me kicked out of the MoMA.” My voice cracked in the middle of the sentence, the whimper making me sound more pathetic than I really would’ve ever liked.

“I know.”

“I shared that with you in confidence – I told you how much it meant to me and you – you still came in and made a scene even after I – I told you not to.” I was hiccupping through my words, swallowing down another round of broken sounds in my mouth. I thought I’d gotten all of the crying out of my system earlier, but apparently I still wasn’t done.

His hand was making reassuring strokes along my shoulder, moving to caress my arm as he nodded along with my observations. His hair was wild, the beanie previously on his head now tucked in his front pocket and the bag of croissants was still clutched between two fingers. He smelled like fabric softener and cologne and some indistinct Harry musk.

“I just--,” I shuddered out a sigh, my words shaky as I tried to fumble them out. “I get it, okay? I get why you did it, even if you did it in a really shitty way, but it’s fine. Next time you don’t like someone, there are way better ways of saying it, but message received. I get it.”

I didn’t get it, not really, and it wasn’t fine, not in the slightest, but if pretending to acknowledge his apology was the quickest way to get this conversation over with, I would take it.

“No,” Harry protested, moving in front of me to face me once more. His hands were hesitant, one still on my arm while the other hovered around self consciously. “No, you really don’t.”

“Harry--,”

“I like you, Lola.” He murmured. “I would think that’s pretty obvious by now. I’ve liked you since you stood outside of the MoMA and explained to me why you like art. I liked you last night, when you flirted with me at the restaurant and I like you now, but it isn’t that easy.”

“I don’t--,”

“I spend most of my time either on a plane or a tour bus.” He continued. “My communication skills are sketchy at best and I’m not always reliable. I don’t want to put you through anything else, which is why I didn’t let you kiss me last night, because if you would’ve I wouldn’t have stopped you and I can’t – I can’t promise you more, okay?”

“I wasn’t asking for your hand in marriage, Harry.” I threw him an incredulous look. “I just wanted to kiss you goodbye.”

He finally figured out what to do with his hands, resting both of them on my waist as he stared down at me. His eyes were dangerously close to smoldering again. We were standing in the middle of the sidewalk outside of the MoMA, not concealed in the slightest and I wasn’t prepared for wherever this was going in the slightest. I didn’t want him to touch me, the feeling of his hands on my hips making it difficult for me to form coherent thoughts, but I also knew that I wasn’t going to pull away.

My heart kept dropping as he talked, whatever feelings I had attempted to bury in regards to Harry stuttering and fluttering back to life.

“I can’t promise you anything – my life is so hectic that I--”

“Oh my god!” I cried, rolling my eyes in frustration as I began to wiggle away from him. “I’m not asking for anything! Stop treating me like I asked you for some big commitment – I’m not stupid! I know that you’re on tour and you’re a hot commodity and I wasn’t asking for something serious!”

He refused to let me move far away from him, hands already grappling for me as I moved. I was back to being exasperated with him and the assumptions he kept making.

“I just wanted to enjoy the rest of the night with you--,” I continued on with my rant. “—and have fun, because I enjoy your company and I thought that you enjoyed mine, but that all went to shit and--,”

In all honestly, I was surprised he hadn’t done it earlier. It seemed like a very Harry-esque move, shutting me up with his lips aggressively pressed against mine. The previous kisses we had shared were full of soft, hesitant touches, but this was different. His hand reached up to cradle the back of my neck, fingers weaving through the hair there as he pressed an urgent kiss against my mouth.

It was embarrassing how I reacted to him immediately, melting against him as I returned each eager kiss. We hadn’t done this much, but still I couldn’t stop myself from how familiar I felt wrapped up against Harry, even if we were stupidly doing this in the middle of the city where everyone could see us.

It took an embarrassingly short amount of time for me to react to him, but an even shorter amount of time before I realized that this wasn’t what we needed to solve our problem and ripped myself away from him, shaking my head as I pulled my lips from him.

“No,” I protested. “No, you don’t just get to kiss me and think that it makes everything better, Harry--,”

But he didn’t even let me get that fully out, either, before he catapulted his face towards mine again, his hands pulling me towards him once more.

“Shh,” he murmured against my lips. “Stop talking.”

I jabbed him in the ribs with my fingers, causing him to let out a yelp as he pulled away from me.

“What the bloody hell was that for?” He scowled, moving one of his hands from around me to rub tenderly at the spot on his side.

“Stop kissing me!” I cried, fixing him with a stern glare, but Harry was having none of that.

He was looking at me intently, his eyes peering straight into mine. His bottom lip was pulled between his teeth, which made me feel generally unwell, but then his eyes started doing that thing where they were one part smolder and another part genuine happiness and I think I needed to lie down.

“I want to enjoy your company too,” he murmured, face hovering dangerously close to mine. “I’m a presumptuous arsehole, but I’m an incredibly sorry arsehole and I want to spend my last few hours in the city with you. I’m sorry for thinking that you couldn’t handle it - I know that I deserve to be jabbed in the ribs a million times over.”

“Damn right you do.” I muttered right back, but each fucking sound out of his mouth was chipping away at my resolve. I had stopped being mad at him ages ago, now just teetering on the edge of exasperated and irritated.

Because he was stupid, just like me. He made assumptions and his attempts to protect me were right shit, but I guess I couldn’t fault him for having his heart in the right place. Because he’d ventured across a city to find me, dealt with Dakota’s presumable wrath and gotten chocolate croissants (which were still in the paper bag digging into my back) and he was stupid but I was stupid too, wasn’t I?

The rejection from last night still stung, but the way he had just kissed me was enough reassurance that he wanted me, something soothing to lay over the sensitive wound.

I didn’t expect great things from Harry. I’d had my realization and moment of clarity from him earlier – I wasn’t going to get a fantastic long-distance relationship, full of long and interesting late night phone calls. The most I was probably going to get from him was friendship, some flirty text messages and the reassurance that he valued my company.

And I had to accept that that was okay. He’d fucked up. He was probably going to fuck up a million times more, but it didn’t change the way he made my heart leap uncomfortably out of my chest or the fact that all it took was a smirk and a well-placed lip bite to make my resolve completely crumble.

He’d caused me enough hurt for the rest of the month and probably the rest of the summer, but he’d given me some happiness, too. He provided adventure and fun and I wasn’t going to forget the way he’d gotten us into the MoMA or the bakery or the way my spine curled when he sighed my name into my mouth.

I wanted to, but I couldn’t.

I wanted to be angry, hold a grudge, but I couldn’t.

So I jabbed another two fingers in his rib cage and then brought up and pressed my mouth to his. “You’re an asshole.” I murmured against his mouth.

“I know.” He chuckled, before he pressed his mouth even harder against mine.


Teenage girls are rioting on the streets today and that’s because teenage heartthrob Harry Styles was seen yesterday kissing UC Berkeley student Lola Knox outside of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. Sources say that the pair seemed to be arguing outside of the MoMA just minutes before the kiss, but whatever quarrel they may have had seems nonexistent by the look of that steamy lip-lock.

We broke the story earlier this week of the two’s apparent romance, first revealed when Styles himself posted a slew of pictures featuring the young brunette, and then gave you a later update that Knox was seen at the San Jose performance Wednesday night. Another source confirms that Lola was spotted backstage at the Oakland show last night as well.

Styles has only been in the Bay Area for a few days, but that’s apparently enough time for the two to spark up some romance. Who knows if things will last, as Styles is in the middle of One Direction’s second world tour, but there is one thing we do know – Lola, we are jealous of you girl.