The Love Club

After two hours in the car, I’m itching to find solid ground beneath my feet again. I usually like to drive in silence, but I didn’t get much sleep last night and have resorted to the staticky noise of the radio as I speed down the motorway in the direction of my parents’ house.

My stomach rumbles again and I glance down at it. I haven’t eaten, either.

Duncan hasn’t responded to any of my texts.

I can’t say I really blame him. I definitely made things weird last night, but of course that wasn’t my intention. Desperate for a buffer, I’d taken advantage of Harry’s sudden appearance in my flat, and I think despite his goodbye kiss on the cheek, he’s taken the time to figure that out.

I might have unintentionally broken my best friend’s heart. The guilt weighs heavily on my chest like a stone.

I’ve no longer pulled into the driveway of my parents’ house that my dad and Felicity have the door pulled open and are standing on the front porch. I want to roll my eyes, but I know they’ve only missed me and are eager to see me. As I put the car in park, Felicity rushes around to the passenger seat to grab whatever dish I’ve insisted on bringing. Tonight it’s only honey buttered rolls, picked up on the way from my favorite bakery. Nonetheless, she lifts the bag from the seat and closes the door with her free hand, sending me a smile and promising to hug me inside. I’m about to make my response when I feel a strong pair of arms lock around me and lift me from the ground.

I can’t help but giggle as my dad spins me like I’m seven years old again. When I start to feel dizzy, he sits me back down and I grin up at him just before he places a lingering kiss to my forehead.

“I missed you,” he tells me softly. I hug him tighter, my long spaghetti arms wrapped around his midsection.

“I missed you, too,” I tell him in earnest.

“No you didn’t,” he accuses. I pull back to examine his face and he offers me a wink, nothing but warmth. “But it’s okay. You were in good hands.”

I’m not sure what to make of that comment, so I only follow him into the house. I slip off my shoes and sink into the rug, never happier to see that old broken grandfather clock as I am now. The rich smell of my favorite meal has overtaken the house, and I follow my nose in the direction of the kitchen where Felicity is stirring a pot on the stove top.

She glances over her shoulder when she sees me, sighs dramatically, and sets down her spoon. I’m ready to recieve her when she turns and crosses the room toward me, engulfing me in a tight hug. After a few moments, she wrangles her way out of my grasp and goes back to the stove. I smile at her charade, as if she’s put out by seeing me when I know she might have actually missed me more than dad.

“Supper’s finished if you want to help me carry some things to the table,” she calls to me over her shoulder. I pick up a serving bowl full of green beans and my honey buttered rolls before heading in the direction of the dining room table. Both Felicity and my father are quick to follow, setting everything down in the center of the table. A few minutes later, we begin to dig in.

I know they’re both dying to hear about tour, but I haven’t yet figured out what it is I want to say about it. It occurs to me that it may be best to focus on the business side of it all, but I also know they’ll be more interested in the personal relationships I’ve developed along the way.

As if on que, my phone vibrates in my pocket.

I sigh before getting to work stabbing at a couple of green beans. I know exactly who is texting me, and it only makes me feel uneasy when I remember the rest of the night.

“Well he hates me,” Harry had declared the moment I re-took up my position on the couch last night. I glanced over at him with a shrug.

“Don’t take it personally. I think I’m the one he’s disappointed in.”

There was a beat of awkward silence before Harry concluded, “So he’s in love with you.”

I cringed, choosing not to make a comment. Though I could feel Harry’s stare on me, I kept my focus on the television screen, which was beginning to play a series of late night How I Met Your Mother re-runs.

“And what about you?” he prompted.

“What about me?” I repeated flatly, exhasperated with the entire conversation.

“How do you feel on the subject?”

I rolled my eyes before letting my gaze fall to him. He was guarded, like the conversation wasn’t one he’d like to be having either, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“What does it matter?” I finally asked. It seemed our conversation would consist mostly of questions from there on out and I found it annoying.

Sensing my growing irritation, he didn’t say any more. Green eyes returning to the screen, he re-situated himself in a reclining position with his feet propped on my table.

There was a lot of internal grumbling and cursing going on, but I couldn’t be sure if it was because of the situation I’d created or the one I’d just evaded with Harry.

Sometime later, I fell asleep. When I awoke, an afghan was draped over me and Harry was no-where to be found.

“So who is it, then?”

My eyes fly up at the sound of my father’s voice. His stare is patient, but prodding. When I look over to Felicity, she wears the same neutral, but vaguely pleased expression on her face. It’s almost like this is a discussion they’ve had before, but that seems highly unlikely since I haven’t seen either of them in the flesh in a month and a half.

“What are you talking about?”

“Is it the blonde one? I’m not fond of the Irish, but if that’s what you’re in to, I won’t stop it,” my dad says before shoving a forkful of mashed potatoes in his mouth.

“What? No.”

“The mullet-y one?”

“Felicity!” I cry in utter embarrassment. She shrugs unapologetically as she takes a sip from her wine glass.

“His name is Louis, by the way,” I correct her. Then, after a moment, I tack on, “He has a serious girlfriend. They all do, besides Niall and Harry.”

“So if it’s not the Irish one...”

“Dad, please. No.”

“He’s the one with the curls, right? Dimples?” Felicity asks.

“You’ve both lost it while I was away,” I spit at them, ripping furiously at a buttered roll to shove in my mouth, if only to give me something to do.

“Is that who keeps texting you?” my dad asks, and I hate that I can feel the blood rushing to my face. My phone has been vibrating incessantly in my dress pocket, but I didn’t realize either of them could hear it until now.

I whip out my phone and turn it off, giving both of them pointed stares before setting it on the table top. My dad rolls his eyes at my dramatics and sits down his fork and knife before wiping at his mustache with a napkin. I know something interesting is about to happen, but I’m not quite sure if it’s good or bad. I take a sip of wine to calm my temper.

With his hands folded in front of him, my dad watches me patiently. Finally, he speaks.

“You know it’s okay, right?”

“What is okay?” I ask, the desperation for the subject to be changed apparent in my tone of voice.

“If you like him, it’s okay,” my dad clarifies for me.

“We’re friends,” I answer in a way that clearly indicates I’m done with it. Unfortunately, my dad doesn’t give up that easily.

“You don’t need to be intimidated by him. You’re a smart, successful, beautiful young woman with a good head on her shoulders and a lot to offer. If anything, I’m sure he should be intimidated by you.”

“Where is this even coming from?”

It’s Felicity who answers my question.

“This may be the first time we’re seeing you in person, Mina, but even over the phone we can sense a change in you. Your phone calls and texts started coming less frequently, you don’t have your days scheduled down to the minute anymore.”

“I still called every day!” I defend, crossing my arms across my chest. “And I don’t have a busy schedule because I’m only focusing on this job right now.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything, sweetheart. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. It’s just different than what you’re usually like,” Felicity soothes.

I sigh, running a hand through my thick, short hair. Reluctantly, I glance to my darkened phone screen before I look back at my father. He’s happily chewing away at a bite of salad, but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t really have to. He’s won this round.

We spend the rest of dinner in near-silence, only making small talk while we finish our meals. I’m still trying to digest what my parents have said to me, but I can’t make sense of it.

I’d never really taken the time to notice the small changes that have taken place within me since the tour. Since reverting to the basics and going girl to girl at concerts, I’ve loosened up on my system a bit. It’s more chaotic than it used to be, reminding me of my primary school days when I used to scribble out charts on construction paper in class while everyone else was working on their art assignments. The whole traveling thing has been fun, too. I’ve more often than not found myself looking forward to seeing more of Europe when the tour resumes again.

Harry’s carefree attitude must be beginning to wear off on me. I’m not sure what this means, but it feels vaguely positive. Except, of course, when I think over the logistics. I’m in the process of clearing the table when it hits me that my time with the boys on tour is all very temporary.

And also the minor detail that Harry’s just hired me to hook him up with other girls.

I begin to feel nauseated as I heap the food into tupperware for leftovers and begin to load the dishwasher with the serving plates. The panic is starting to settle in, but I still can’t figure out why. Just because I set him and Niall off and leave the tour doesn’t mean our communication will cease. We’re better friends than that now, right?

Unless we aren’t.

What have I done? I’ve gone and messed up my friendship with Duncan and now I have nothing.

“Mina?”

I jump at the sound of my dad’s voice, almost dropping one of the plates. When I turn, he has a worried expression on his face like it’s dawning on him he’s interrupted something important. I tend to have internal debates a lot.

When I calm down enough to gently set the plate on the counter, I realize he’s holding my phone in his hands, the screen of it lit up with an incoming call. Harry’s name is plainly displayed across the screen, accompanied by a selfie he took after stealing my phone on the plane.

I don’t want to answer it, not by a long shot, but with my dad offering it to me and watching me the way he is, I feel backed into a corner. Silently, and with a slight tremor in my hand, I accept the phone and slide the button to answer.

“Hello?”

“Mina!”

Despite the slow, sturdy drawl of his voice, I can detect his excitement in my answering his call. With a glance over my shoulder at my dad, who is leaning against the counter with a hand on Felicity’s shoulder as they both watch me, I head over to the sliding glass door and step onto the balcony. I’m eager to get away from both of them right now, and I certainly don’t need them eavesdropping on my converation.

“Hey,” I respond for lack of anything better.

“Where are you right now?”

I’m more interested in where he is. There’s a lot of noise in the background, and while he isn’t quite shouting into the phone, he’s not at his usual quiet tone, either.

“I’m at my parent’s house in Oxford,” I answer. “Where are you?”

“Liam dragged me to Funky Buddha. I escaped to the back alley to try your mobile one last time. You didn’t answer any of my texts.”

His voice has traces of poutiness in it, and I know he’s probably been drinking. His words aren’t slurred, but there’s an undertone of draining inhibitions in the way he sounds right now. I take a moment to lament not being there to hear it in person before quickly pushing the thought away.

“I was driving, and then we were eating dinner. This is the first free moment I’ve had,” I explain.

“Ah,” he says.

There’s a long stretch of silence during which it seems neither of us know what to say. I shuffle forward, leaning my weight on my elbows against the white painted wood of the railing. With my parents’ home situated in an upscale subdivision, I’m looking out into a small expanse of trees that line a walking trail in the distance.

“Why did you call?” I find myself asking.

“Wanted to see if you’d come with us, but obviously you were busy.”

I can practically hear him shrug over the phone and I roll my eyes.

“That’s not what I meant,” I tell him, and then cringe in immediate regret. What exactly do I mean?

Harry seems to be wondering the same, because he stays silent on the other end of the line. Inhaling deeply, I attempt to elaborate.

“Why do you keep calling? Why do you want to talk to me?”

It sounds berating the way it comes out of my mouth, but not toward him. The question might not even be meant for him, really, though he has the power to give it a definitive answer. I suppose I’m wondering what’s so interesting about me. What is it that motivates him to want to be my friend?

I hear him lightly chuckle on the other end of the line and realize I’ve been holding my breath.

“I like you,” he says simply.

It’s just like that for him. Black and white, yes or no, I like you or I don’t. In a moment of desperate confusion, I blurt out, “Yeah, but what does that mean?”

Apparently it’s a night for me to keep asking stupid questions. My eyes fall shut as I bring a hand to rub my forehead. This all sounds so ridiculous, like one of those girls who demands for a relationship to be defined. In a way, I suppose that’s what I’m doing, but on a more mild level.

“I don’t know,” he finally answers, and when he does, he sounds somewhat flustered as well. “I suppose it means I find pleasure in your company.”

The amount of time he’s taken to answer the question tells me he’s thought it through, but hasn’t come to a definitive conclusion. I sigh, realizing this is what I’ll have to live with.

“Are you free tomorrow evening?” he asks, snapping me back into the conversation out of the depths of endless questions starting with ‘why’.

“That depends on why you’re asking,” I answer immediately, and I can almost hear him smile.

“Let’s go golfing.”

I frown.

“I don’t golf.”

“I can teach you,” he counters automatically, as if he anticipated this.

“I didn’t say I can’t golf, I said I don’t golf.”

“Why?” he asks, incredulous.

“Dad used to drag me out on the green with him every Sunday. After four years of this hellish torture, I finally mustered up the courage to tell him it was boring and I’d rather go home to deconstruct E-Harmony’s matchmaking algorithms than blindly wack at a ball in the hopes that it’d hit a tiny hole so far away it’s not even visible,” I tell him blandly.

I have him laughing, which is enough to coax a smile from me. I turn to lean my back against the rail, my eyes glancing back to the confines of my house where my father and Felicity are all but pressed against the door to eavesdrop. My smile drops as I catch them, shooing them away.

“C’mon, Underhill. There has to be some negotiating ground here somewhere.”

“Nope. The only golf I do is mini,” I say.

“Perfect. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Before I can argue, he’s already hung up. I pull the phone from my ear incredulously, staring down at it with brows furrowed, as if it holds the answer to the new question I have.

What the hell have I just done?

–

The new panic starts fifteen minutes before Harry is set to arrive. I find myself glancing at the clock again, like I have been all day. After the long drive home last night, I fed Gatsby, fell into bed, and slept until noon. That only gave me seven measely hours to prepare mini golfing with Harry.

At first I had procrastinated it. I’d watched a couple of episodes of Once Upon A Time, fixed myself a pita sandwich, and spent the morning lazily petting Gatsby, who was offput by my sudden affection for her, but not complaining. Around four in the afternoon, I realized I should probably shower and figure out what I should wear.

Not that it’s a date or anything.

We’ve hung out before. Sure, it might have been in more of a professional setting (if you could call anything any of those boys ever did professional), but this shouldn’t be any different.

That doesn’t explain why I’m spending twenty minutes going back and forth between a pair of skinny jeans and a tee shirt or my usual attire of a skirt and blouse.

My phone lights up and I glance at it to read Harry is on his way up. In a blind moment of alarm, I throw on the skinny jeans and grab the first tee-shirt available to me in the hopes that it’s at least clean. I usually sleep in them, so I have no idea to the amount of cat hair that may or may not be littering it. I’m about to double-check that I look okay when I hear a knocking at my door and freeze.

When I glance to Gatsby, she doesn’t offer any suggestions. Slowly, she continues to lick her paw while she watches me, as if asking, “Aren’t you going to get that?”

With a sigh, I run my fingers through my hair and pull open the door. Harry’s leaning against the doorframe in a black burnout tee and his signature dark skinny jeans. When he looks up at me, he offers his usual dimpled grin.

“Nice shirt,” he comments.

I realize I haven’t taken the time to even realize what I’m wearing, so when I glance down, I almost face-palm at the fact that I’m wearing exactly the Beatles tee he bought me in Brazil. Without giving much thought, I snort and look back up at him, crossing my arms over my chest.

“That’s rich, coming from Johnny Cash.”

He raises a brow at my fiestiness, but nods in good humor, taking my light dig at his all-black attire in stride. Instead of continuing our banter, he asks if I’m ready to go. I nod, grabbing my keys from the hook near the door, and follow him to the lift.

“How were your parents?” he asks after pressing the button to the ground floor.

They’ve become gossiping old maids while I was away, speculating on my love life which they believe has to do with you. How was your weekend?

But of course I can’t say that to him, so I respond with, “They missed me. It was good to see them.”

“I’m interested to hear what a night at the Underhill household entails,” he says, side-eyeing me dramatically. I laugh.

“Not as exciting as you’d think. Felicity makes dinner and my dad gets to pick the wine. Afterward we usually sit in the living room and talk or watch a movie.”

“And has the Academy Award winning film ‘This Is Us’ made an appearance?” he jokes.

The doors open on the ground floor, which distracts Harry from my flushing cheeks. In fact, it has made an appearance, but I don’t want to tell him that. I open my mouth to deny it, but it’s too late. Our arrival to the lobby wasn’t as much of a distraction as I’d hoped, or maybe he knows me well enough to realize that my hesitance in an answer is answer enough. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him grin so wide, and I’m positive my face is tomato red.

“They didn’t feel comfortable with me going without knowing a little bit about the band. Felicity took matters into her own hands,” I sputter out. He’s still laughing as he holds the door open for me.

“Felicity is your stepmum?” he clarifies. I nod, slightly surprised he remembers details about my family I mentioned in passing a few weeks ago.

“Do you two get on well?” he questions next.

“She’s my best friend,” I tell him in earnest.

“Well that was a blow to the gut,” is his automatic response, and I laugh as he pulls open the door to a black Range Rover parked on the curb. I thank him and pull myself into the oversized vehicle. He seems slightly amused by my struggle to reach, but refrains from comment.

While I watch him cross in front of the car to make it to the driver’s side, I realize this is the first time it’s ever been just us. Even in Brazil, we’d had a driver and a security guard lurking nearby. It feels strange to see him climb into the driver’s seat and pull out onto the road. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel absently while we wait in traffic, humming along to whatever weird indie song he has connected by Bluetooth to his phone.

I’m watching a group of tourists take photos in front of a double decker bus when Harry speaks again.

“So I’ve been thinking about that suicide song thing,” he begins, and I groan, but look over to him with a smile on my face. He chuckles and wordlessly swipes through his playlist to find a song. When he’s satisfied, he hits play and turns it up, eyes back on the road. I’m not sure if he’s genuinely trying to pay attention to his driving technique or waiting until the song is finished for my reaction, but I give him the courtesy of returning my eyes to the passenger window while I listen carefully.

”Get on your knees and I thought you can leave it all in your mind, it is all in your mind...”

There’s something about the song that makes me feel tired. The lyrics certainly seem to fit the situation, but the music is rhythmic and vaguely optimistic. In a way, it’s comparable to my own song choice in that sense.

”So tired of living like a kite, kite, kite, kite...”

Those words sink like a stone in my gut. If anyone can relate to them, I know it’s Harry, constantly bouncing from place to place, looking down on it all from above and unable to interact.

There’s a distinct change in the mood suddenly. Just moments ago we’d been bantering, and I know Harry only brought up the song because it’s a private thing we both share, a joke of sorts. I’m sure he never meant it to cause any harm, but my heart begins aching for him as it continues.

It must really suck to be Harry Styles sometimes.

When the song winds to an end, Harry clears his throat and says, “Well, what do you think?”

I’m not ready to look at him yet, but I know I have to. He’s not yet aware of just how far I’ve read into the song choice or how it has affected me, and I’m trying to figure out whether it’s something he wants me to understand or not. Knowing Harry’s character, it might be both; a conflict between desperately needing someone to understand but unwilling to hand that weight over for someone to carry.

So I plaster on a smile and turn to him, hoping my brave face masks the overwhelming sadness I feel.

“Nine out of ten stars,” I answer.

He frowns, and for a moment I think he’s seen through my charade, but then he says, “Only nine?” and I want to sigh out a breath of relief.

We’ve pulled into a parking spot at a mini golf course, and I’m in the process of unbuckling my seatbelt when I respond.

“Well, ten out of ten is reserved for my song.”

He nods with a slight smile, like my explanation makes perfect sense to him.

I’m reaching for the door handle when I catch Harry’s reflection in the glass. His smile has faded, and he appears melancholy while he watches my motions. It’s then that I realize he’s latched onto my mood.

Funny how I’ve always been able to fool everyone else into thinking I’ve got everything under control, that I don’t need any help, that I’m not hurting.

Somehow, Harry is the only one who has ever seen straight through it.