Damn This Wild Young Heart.

When we pulled up to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, the cab driver looked a little muffed, because he also knew that we were well past visiting hours, but he took my money anyway. I gave him a smile and a thank you as I slid out of the car, Harry following closely behind me. We took a few steps towards the building before I stopped abruptly, turning towards Harry.

“You know when you’re sharing something really important with someone, and you get really nervous because you love this thing so much and you’re not sure if they’re going to like it?” I asked quickly, inhaling deeply to steady myself.

The only other person that I’d brought with me to the MoMA was Dakota and that was only because she insisted to know where I went off to on my most stressful days, coming home hours after a final exam with my calm restored.

Harry nodded.

“This is one of those things.” I informed him, wiping my sweaty palm against the front of my jeans. “If it was daytime, this is the first place that we’d have gone, but it’s not and I wasn’t even going to come because it seems kind of pointless, but you wanted to see San Francisco and to me, this is the best place here.”

I let out an exhale, shutting my eyes briefly. I was trying to figure out why I was so nervous. I shared this building with thousands of other people, but their experiences and mine were secular, never overlapping into the same thing. I was sharing my MoMA with Harry, even if he wouldn’t be able to even get inside.

“So I’m just going to ask that even if you don’t like it, even if you think this is a stupid idea and want to immediately do something more exciting afterwards, that you just pretend that you’re having a good time. Because this place is too important to me.” My voice was low and slightly shaky, my bottom lip pulled into my mouth as I nibbled on it nervously.

“Lola,” Harry started, eyebrows furrowed a bit. “I’m sure I’m going to love it.” He reassured, looking me right in the face.

“Heh,” I squeaked, before turning away from the very intense eye contact and moving a few steps closer to the building, standing on the sidewalk directly in front of the ticketing booth and main entrance. “Let’s hope.”

“This is the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.” I explained, taking another step back and looking straight up. “It’s my favorite place in the entire world.”

Harry mimicked my pose, shoving his hands into his pockets as he looked p at the grand architecture. “Why?” Harry asked curiously.

“When I was fourteen, I got into this really huge fight with my mom – I don’t even remember what it was about now, but I was a fourteen year old girl and thought that my world was ending and I was so mad, so I did the only thing I thought would properly piss my mom off – go into the city without telling her. I took the bus to the Bart station, took the Bart in, and wandered around San Francisco by myself.” I tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, blushing slightly as I retold the tale of my teenage antics.

“The only other times I’d been into the city were with my parents or my school, so I had no idea where I was going. By that time I was still kind of convinced that I was going to be an artist, even with my zero talent, so when I saw this girl holding a canvas I went up to her and asked where her favorite place in the city was. She told me the MoMA, so I came and spent the day here. I fell in love.”

Harry was listening to me intently, his head inclined to the left. I blinked up at the museum, then over at him, trying to gauge his reaction.

“It became my safe place,” I continued. “So when I’m really stressed about school or home or life in general, I just come to the MoMA and it kind of reminds me of what I’m doing and why I’m doing it and why I love art so much, because I spent]d most days in class studying art from centuries ago and it’s nice to see what people are doing now.” I was rambling, words sliding out as quickly as I thought them, but I was having trouble figuring out which words were telling the story that I wanted to tell, so I used all of them and hoped that he got the idea.

Harry waited patiently as I talked, nodding along politely.

“Sounds like a cool place.” Harry commented with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. “It’s nice to have a place like that. What’s your favorite exhibit?” Harry asked me then, no longer looking up at the building but over at me.

“That’s like trying to choose a favorite child.” I countered. “I can’t do that.”

Harry raised an eyebrow in challenge, saying nothing else.
I rolled the question over in my head a few times, attempting to catalogue through all of the exhibits in my head. Some were a blur of abstract oil paintings and others were painful war photos, but I kept flickering back to something that had been in the museum right when I started at Berkeley.

“They had this room that was full of typewriters last fall.” I admitted then, still feeling like I was choosing a favorite child and betraying the rest. “They were the makes used by famous authors, but they were painted really bright colors and mounted on a wall. I guess that one was my favorite.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s art out of things that people use to make more art. Like, they are making art out of something that’s been used to create entire worlds.” I clarified. “And I think it was supposed to show some type of connection between art and writing and how the two feed off of each other, but that might be reading too much into it.”

At this, Harry let out a laugh. “You really are an art student.”

“I would hope so,” I joked. “Or else my student loans are going to waste and I’m going to be broke when I graduate for no good reason.”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever thought that much about an art piece before.” Harry admitted. “Or found that much meaning in one.”

“That’s kind of the game, I think,” I murmured. “Because unless you have the artist actively telling you what they meant, it’s all one big guessing game. Is the black dot on the canvas an introspective look into racism or is it just a black dot? You derive your own meaning.”

At this, Harry let out a low whistle. I flushed, embarrassed heat spreading across my face.

“Sorry,” I apologized. “I didn’t bring you here to give you a rehash of my Introspective to Art 101 class.”

Harry only laughed. “It’s alright.” He conceded. “I kind of like learning things.”

The way he said that word – ‘alright’ – it made me flush; the lilt of his voice halfway through the word, the long drawl. I had to look away from him quickly, afraid that my face would convey something I wasn’t quite sure I was feeling yet.

“So that’s the MoMA.” I concluded. “You need to come back to San Francisco during the day sometime and see inside.”

“I’ll add it to my bucket list. It sounds like a great place, especially since you’re so passionate about it.” Harry ran his hand across his face, rubbing at a spot on his cheek. He flashed me a grin before he started to back away. “I’ve got to make a phone call, alright? It’ll just be a moment.”

He was walking away from me before I even had a chance to respond, stalking off towards the side of the building, his phone already pressed to his ear. I still hadn’t even turned mine on, letting it side idly in my pocket, but I didn’t quite feel like dealing with the rest of the world yet. I was having fun tonight, even if it still felt slightly surreal that I was running around San Francisco with one-fifth of the same boy band that my little cousin’s bedroom walls were covered in. I needed to remember to get something signed for her and then I’d be exempt from birthday presents for the next ten years.

I stared at the MoMA, but I wasn’t contemplating the architecture and the wonders of art within the walls. I was contemplating Harry and the way his hair fell in his eyes and the boots he had on his feet, which were brown and faded around the toes and slightly horrendous, but they made me want to laugh in a good way.

I’d been up since 8:07 that morning and I knew that exhaustion should be setting in, but I was feeling full of adrenaline, high from the way the night felt and the glow of the streetlamps on my skin. I felt like I was finally doing something adventurous and worthwhile, making up for all of the house parties I ditched for studying Monet in the library and video game nights I sacrificed to catch a supplemental lecture in the city. I was still atoning for the fact that I got into Berkeley, trying to prove to everyone else that I was supposed to be here months later, because my disbelief in my acceptance letter still ran miles deep.

I’d been waitlisted once and rejected twice when I logged onto my account and saw the bright ‘Congratulations!’ I screamed and danced and called every single person I thought would care, because I was almost to the point where I thought I was going to have to give up my San Francisco dream. The first thing I bought was a student membership to the MoMA, sending in my deposit second.

I was still in the midst of my college acceptance nostalgia when Harry came ambling back towards me, a grin spread across his face.

“C’mon, let’s go, no time to waste,” He jerked his head towards the entrance, his legs picking up the pace as he started towards the front door.

“It’s closed!” I called after him, but my legs were moving anyway.

“Harry!” I called again. “Trust me, it’s closed!”

“Live a little, Lola,” He encouraged, before he looked both ways, knocked three times on the door, and waited.

“Who exactly are you hoping is going to open the--?”

The door popped open, jarring open less than half an inch. Harry opened it quickly, ushering me inside before shutting it firmly behind him.

“The fuck?” The museum lights were dim, but on, illuminating the welcome desk and two different flights of stairs. A metal wall was pulled down over the gift shop and the café, but the lights were on and the alarm system wasn’t ringing.

“Show me around the MoMA.” Harry insisted, the same devilish grin spread across his face. “It’s ours for the next two hours.”

I turned towards him wildly, my eyes open wide. “Are we going to get arrested? Because I know that I made it seem like I’m a badass, but I am so so so not.”

“We’re not going to get arrested.” Harry laughed. “I pulled some strings, now stop asking questions. You’re wasting precious time.”

“I think I’m going into cardiac arrest.” I clutched my hand to my chest, where my heart was fluttering wildly, spastic as I looked around the empty museum around me.

“We have two hours.” Harry continued. “I tried to get more, but I figured two hours was good enough for the condensed version. Shall we?” He motioned towards the stairs, his legs already moving him upwards.

I trailed behind him, dazed as I took in the museum all around me. “What did you do?”

“I called in a few favors.” He said with a shrug. “And I might have told the security guard that this is where we met and I’m going to propose to you tonight.”

“And that got you into the MoMA in the middle of the night?” We were climbing up the steps now, Harry taking them two at a time while I stumbled to catch up to him, my face still in awe as I took in the marbled walls and empty hallways. There was silence.

“That and a call to his granddaughter and we’re in. Worked a lot better than I expected. Left or right?” He looked down the hallway, head swiveling both ways.

Normally, I went left first, saving the architecture portion on the right for last, because that was always my favorite and I held onto it like a treat. I was already halfway to rebellious tonight, so I inclined my head to the right and pointed us that way.

“I haven’t been here since school ended.” I breathed out, my attention caught by the large bleeding canvas to my left, dried red puddles spelling out “FAILURE” on the ground. “They’ve already changed things.”

“I still expect commentary.” Harry replied as we moved into the first room. “Because I probably won’t understand anything otherwise.”

“Make up your own understanding, then,” I challenged. “Or at least make up a bad story about it.”

We moved from room to room, orbiting around each other as we stared at walls, stared at the floor, stared at things hanging from the ceiling. Harry liked the architecture and sculpture as much as I did, crouching down on the floor to inspect the tiny chairs and tiny sofa that made up one portion of an exhibit. He let out a laugh when we came upon a sculpture that was made of nothing but differently shaped breasts, the sound escaping him quickly.

“Can you really give me an in depth meaning on a sculpture of breasts?” He asked.

“Um, challenge accepted.” I replied, moving around the sculpture quickly. “It can be a celebration of womn and their natural diversity. It could also be a message on the sexualization of breasts in our culture, when their main purpose is to nourish. The variation of the size and shape of each breast could also be a comment on diversity.”

“Or someone could just really like breasts.” He pointed out. “And they’re celebrating that.”

“Yup.” I nodded. “It could be either/or. That’s the beauty of it.”

Harry just rolled his eyes at me, but he was smiling while he did so, before we moved onto the next piece. There was a constant stream of chatter as we moved; I would provide Harry with a deep, somewhat philosophical interpretation of what the art might mean, and then he would obtusely suggest something obvious, like, “Maybe they just really wanted to watch paint dry.” He gave each suggestion with such sincerity that I couldn’t get irritated, even when he made stupid suggestions and cheeky replies over the nude sculptures and portraits.

“You have the maturity of a four year old.” I scoffed as we exited a room full of pop-art inspired silhouettes; each depicting what looked like a different sexual position.

“I’m at least six, thank you very much.” He protested. “And I’m sorry, but do they really let children look at those? They’re practically pornographic!”

“There was a warning outside of the door,” I pointed out. “You just didn’t care to read it.”

“Well, excuse me,” He sniffed, heading to the opposite side of the room, planting himself in front of three small canvases.
Harry and I wandered away from each other, then, him moving much quicker through the museum than I. I caught him on his phone a few times, thumbs twiddling away, but I cared too much about the sacredness of the silence to call him out for it. The museum was magical at night, the usual crowded rooms cleared of people. I didn’t have to wait impatiently for a group to pass to get my viewing in and there were no children running around my feet, demanding to be fed.

I was trying to think of a better experience, something more magical than having my favorite place in the world to myself (okay, technically not, but Harry’s company wasn’t bugging me and therefore didn’t count) and I was coming up empty.

Harry and I met up again on the next floor, a little less than an hour later, where I found him standing in front of a grouping of photographs, his face awestruck.

The collection of war photographs were haunting, a variety of black, white, and grey faces each depicting a different type of pain. Some mouths were open in screams, others closed behind clenched teeth. Harry was looking straight ahead, his shoulders tense as he stared.

I stood next to him in silence.

“I think I understand the whole art thing, now.” He mumbled.

I only turned to look at him.

“When I came in here, it was like someone punched me in the gut.”

I pursed my lips together, before I reached my hand out, wrapped it around his, and squeezed. Harry looked startled for a second, before he squeezed back. Maybe there were a lot of things I should have felt in that hand squeeze. Maybe there should have been an electric shock, an explosion of fireworks, some type of mind-numbing shiver that spread from my spine, but it just felt nice.

His hand was a little clammy, but smooth, and when it was enclosed in mine, it felt nice.

“We have to leave soon.” I sighed. The museum was always beautiful, but empty it was breathe-taking. I felt calm in a way that I hadn’t felt since I started school, content in the moment.
Harry only nodded, still looking ahead. I moved to pull my hand from his, now self-conscious about my bold move, but he held onto my fingers tightly, moving to intertwine our hands.

“D’you know, this is the most alone time I’ve gotten in months.” His words were so low; they might’ve been a whisper, like he was afraid to speak any louder.

“I love my life.” He continued. “I love my band and my fans and what I get to do every day. It’s more than I could’ve ever dreamed about and I’m thankful, but before tonight I think I forgot what it feels like to be alone.

“I’m always with someone, y’know? If it’s not one of the lads, it’s security or someone else. I left today without telling anyone, because I just wanted to get away for a while. I think I feel claustrophobic, which I know sounds a bit stupid, but it’s the only word I can think of that fits. And then I feel selfish and ungrateful because I’m so lucky and I don’t want to take advantage of things, but I can’t stop how I feel.”

It was probably the most Harry had spoken the entire night consecutively, the words pouring out of him quietly, his slow drawl curling around each syllable as he struggled to get them out. He was squeezing my hand tighter now, refusing to look away from the torn face in front of him.

I tried to think about how that must feel, always being surrounded by people – even when you’re alone, you’re not really alone. There are fans and media and someone ready to take a picture of you. I got cranky when I didn’t have enough time to myself, kicking my roommate out of our room or escaping to the library on a weekly basis.

“You’re not an awful person for wanting some time to yourself.” I stroked my thumb across the palm of his hand in the most reassuring gesture I knew. “And I don’t know if you could ever be considered selfish, Harry.”

I could see him open his mouth to protest, but I cut him off.
“Maybe I don’t get to have a say, because I’ve known you upwards of a whole three hours, but I’m going to give you my two cents anyway.”

I turned to face him them, hands still dangling at our sides. I fixed him with a mean scowl. “You share your entire life with the rest of the world. Your time with the band, your days off, your love life. Wanting something completely to yourself doesn’t make you a horrible person, so stop. Right now.”

He finally turned to face me, his eyebrows furrowed yet again (seriously, he is going to have some intense wrinkles with the strength of this furrowing action) before his shoulders dropped and he let his face smooth out. “I really didn’t want this to turn into some deep emotional moment.” He sighed. “I’m being a bit of a wanker, aren’t I?”

“No, you’re being a teenage boy.” I told him plainly, giving him a bit of a pointed glance. “But I’m not going to let you sulk for the rest of the night.”

“Bit of a bossy bird, aren’t you?” He observed, giving me a bit of a glare.

“Oh shove off.” I removed my hand from his, turning from him and making my way towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Harry called after me, presumably still rooted to the same place.

“To the ground floor. Our time is up and I want a chocolate croissant.”

“Oi, with the croissant again!” He laughed. “Do you think about anything else?”

“And I’ve also decided that the last one to the ground floor pays, so--,” I started, the rest of my sentence caught into a laugh as Harry flew by me, his legs already starting towards the stairs.

*

Running in a museum is dangerous and not to be condoned. The floors are slippery, there are breakable things everywhere, and one room bleeds into the next, making it nearly impossible to run in a linear direction for very long. I knew my way around the MoMA, but I was pretty sure Harry was lost. I’d made it to the ground floor in a matter of minutes, expecting him to be doing some type of victorious dance or smiling smugly, but his lanky body wasn’t in sight.

I spent about five minutes in the lobby, slinking around the welcome desk and shuffling through the papers on the counter before I heard footsteps. Harry was thundering down the steps, crossing over to me quickly.

“This place--,” he breathed. “—is a bloody maze.”

I only laughed at him, shoving my hands into the pockets of my sweater. I had been enjoying the silence of the museum, still turning it over in my head that I’d just gotten two hours of uninterrupted MoMA time, even if it was with Harry, who made stupid jokes about the paintings and giggled inappropriately at some of the statues, but I don’t even know if I would have enjoyed it more if I was by myself.

“You ready?” Harry asked, his breath only slightly labored now.

“Almost.” I turned to survey the empty lobby once more, feeling the silence and the low hum of the lights. With one last breath of fresh, empty museum air, I moved to Harry, wrapping my arms around his middle as I pulled him into a hug.

He let out a bit of a surprised laugh, before wrapping his arms around me as well, resting his head against mine.

“Thank you,” I mumbled into his chest, my words muffled against the fabric of his soft t-shirt. “This is probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

“You’re welcome.” Harry whispered back, his words floating into my hair. “Thank you as well. This entire night has been really, really nice.”

“D’you know what would make it even better?” I continued to mumble into his chest. He smelled like fabric softener and expensive cologne. I had to physically stop myself from nuzzling my head into his chest, the scent making me want to curl up and fall asleep in the curve of his neck.

“What’s that, love?”

“A chocolate croissant.”

His body shook with laughter, my face pressed against his chest as he chuckled. “You’re nothing if not persistent.” He acknowledged as we both pulled away, shaking his head at my antics.

“In the fifth grade, I started my school’s student council because I asked about it every single day. I’m convinced that persistent spirit is what got me into Berkeley.” I’d been a terror, bugging my teacher about it every single day until she relented, but it paid off in the end, because we had an all school ice-cream day at the hands of student council and I became a revered school president.

Harry only continued to smile at me, before he slid one of the rings previously on his finger onto mine, securing it into place before he twined our hands together once again. “Don’t forget to act really excited.” He reminded me as we headed towards the door.

“For what? What are you doing?” I was taking glances at our entwined hands, staring at the joined fingers curiously. Was this a thing now? Had we progressed to the holding hands stage of the night? I wasn’t exactly complaining, because he had nice hands and all, but the contact between our fingers was doing absolutely nothing for the swarm of flying things inside of my stomach, insects and velociraptors swarming around beneath my ribcage and making me feel like I was going to vomit.

“I just proposed to you, remember? I’m thinking the statue of breasts should be our spot.”

“So I said no out of sheer principle, right? Because that might be the worst place in the entire museum to do it. There was an entire room dedicated to love pieces.”

“Bollocks,” Harry scoffed. “You said yes, threw yourself at me, and shagged me relentlessly right on the museum floor.”

I hit him so hard his yelp reverberated around the empty room. He swore loudly, but still opened the museum door and let me through.

“I think that counts as domestic abuse.” He proclaimed as we made our way onto the sidewalk. A security guard was standing against the side of the building, his head buried in a newspaper.
He looked up as we approached, sending Harry a curious smile.

“How goes it?” The security guard asked, his wrinkled face looking hopeful. He was an older man, well into his fifties, with salt and pepper hair that was shaved close to his scalp.

“She said yes!” Harry declared with a smile, thrusting our intertwined hands, mine which had a silver ring with a large black setting on it, into his face.

“Congratulations!” The security guard smiled. “Can’t say my granddaughter is going to be happy about this, but I’m happy for you both!”

“Thanks for all of your help, mate,” Harry thanked, before he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone once again. “Do you mind taking a picture of us?”

I sent Harry a confused glance, but conceded anyway, sending the security guard a wide smile.

“Of course!” The man obliged, grabbing Harry’s phone and waiting for us to pose.

Harry wrapped his arm around my waist, pulling me to him quickly. I kept a wide smile on my face, looking directly into the camera and waiting for the flash. The picture was taken quickly and I went to move when the security guard protested.

“Now one of the happy couple kissing!” He insisted. “Show everyone that you’re both officially off the market.”

“Oh, um,” I started, the protests dying on my lips when Harry immediately turned around, put both of his hands on either side of my face, and pressed his lips to mine.

I let my eyes flutter shut involuntarily, relaxing my face and leaning into him. His lips were soft, but slightly chapped, brushing against mine with a bit of force. I felt the camera flash behind my lids, capturing the moment, before we both pulled away. I blinked rapidly, trying to figure out what had just happened in my head. My tongue darted across my lips, retracing the areas where his lips had been only seconds earlier.

“Have a good night!” The security guard called after us as we made our way down the sidewalk, Harry now with his phone firmly in his hand.

I opened my mouth in an attempt to say something, but I was having trouble forming words in my head.

“Chocolate croissants, then?” Harry suggested.

I sent him a fierce glare, the level of displeasure behind my scowl up to at least an eight.

“What?” He asked with a laugh, blinking at me innocently. “I was just playing a part!”

“If you put your lips on my person again without asking, I will set you on fire. No one will be able to find your ashes.” I threatened.

And then for the second time of the night, I reached my arm out and smacked him across the chest.