The Love Club

I’ve never given much thought to how much Harry and I know one another without really knowing one another. He, on the other hand, must have been thinking about it a lot, and I can only humor him from the passenger seat of his Range Rover, my weekend bag in the back seat as he drives us toward Oxford at a leisurely pace.

“Middle name?” he asks.

“Lorraine,” I answer.

Harry ponders this, head cocked to one side, and I can almost watch the way his mind works, repeating the words in his head. Mina Lorraine Underhill, Mina Lorraine Underhill, Mina Lorraine Underhill.

“Yours is Edward,” I add helpfully, and he smiles, sending me a sideways glance.

“It takes the fun out of it if you just Google all the answers.”

“I Googled it ages ago,” I shrug.

“Oh yeah? When?”

He’s fishing and we both know it. I give him a sidelong glance that he blatantly ignores in favor of grinning that dimply grin of his.

“I dunno. A while ago.”

“Vague,” he comments, but I’m done with the topic of discussion.

“Favorite song?” I ask him instead.

“Why don’t you Google it?” he mocks, and I unintentionally let out a bark of laughter. The kid is hopeless.

“Free Falling, I think. Yours?”

“It changes from day to day.”

“What is it today?”

“I’m not sure. Haven’t had an occasion to choose one.”

Harry doesn’t say anything for a while, his eyes focused on the road. I wonder how much more of this Spanish inquisition he has built up and wait patiently for his next question. Instead of staring at him while he ponders his next words, I opt to stare the window where the countryside is flying by. There are minimal clouds in the sky today, and it’s a bit cooler than it has been so far this summer. If I so chose, I could roll down the window and be comfortable with the warm breeze that blew in. Harry’s already offered, but I’d prefer to listen to the hum of his voice when his favorite songs come on, easily accessible without the roar of the wind.

“Favorite color?”

“Purple.”

“Celebrity crush?”

“Eddie Redmayne.”

“Oh.” He sounds disappointed. “That’s all?”

“Yep,” I answer, turning to look at him with a wry expression. “That’s all.”

“Rude,” he frowns, but then recovers. “Biggest pet peeve?”

“Mouth sounds. General smacking and sucking teeth, the whole bit.” I cringe and he laughs.

“It’s a wonder you’ve made it this far on tour with Louis,” he comments.

“It truly is,” I agree.

He shakes his head, all sunshine and dimples with one hand on the wheel, the other resting carelessly on his thigh. He’s using cruise control and his leg jiggles up and down, but not in time with the beat. It’s then that I catch on.

“Harold Edward Styles, are you nervous?”

His eyes flicker over to me, a pained expression on his face at being caught. He’s not about to give it up that easily, though, and I cross my arms in preparation for battle.

“Of course not. I’m fantastic with parents,” he argues.

“I’ve seen you perform to thousands of fans, trek through mobs at airports, sneak out in a bread van to do some sight seeing, and I’ve never seen you so pale,” I point out.

He presses his lips together in a tight line, his face stony with disapproval. I’m enjoying the moment, the way he’s the one feeling slightly off-kilter for the first time since I’ve met him. Always so confident and sure, I can tell by the way he pulls at his lip the closer we come to Oxford. It’s all so endearing.

“You have nothing to worry about,” I assure him. “They’ll love you.”

“Maybe,” he allowed.

I shot him a look. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’d understand if they didn’t,” he sighs. When there’s silence for a beat too long, he glances over at me before running a hand through his hair.

“I dunno, I just run through logistics and it never turns out in my favor. Being with me is complicated, and the longer it goes on the messier it gets. It fucks people up, and I don’t want to do that to you. I like you too much.”

Though he’s stopped speaking aloud, I know there’s more he’s leaving unsaid. I can tell by the furrow in his brows, the slight pout of his lips that he’s going through some sort of inner monologue.

The worst thing is that I understand where he’s coming from. Just earlier this week, I was there myself. There’s nothing I could say or do to talk him out of it, so instead I reach over for his hand, entwining our fingers. He pauses for a moment, tense, but then relaxes in my hold and rubs his thumb over my skin.

“I already tried this once, remember?” I joke. He shoots me a glare. Whether it’s at the reminder or the comparison I’m not sure. “You’re sort of stuck with me for the time being, so stop being so sour about it.”

“I’m not sour,” he mumbles.

“And argumentative.”

“I’m not argumentative,” he says, and then upon realizing his words, he smiles. I give his hand a squeeze.

We’re hitting the city limits and I sit up straighter in my seat the closer we get to home. Eventually I take over, annoyed with the wrong turns the GPS is suggesting and the way Harry tends to favor listening to it over me. When it’s unplugged, I tell him where to go and he listens without comment. Dad’s house is a corner home, and I point where he should pull into the drive.

He puts the car in park, but hesitates getting out. I slowly unbuckle my seatbelt, watching him with an expectant expression while he figures out whatever it is he wants to say to me.

“Okay,” he finally states, and I know it’ll be a good one whatever it is because he only begins sentences like that when he’s afraid of whatever is about to come out of his mouth. “Can I say something to you without you getting weird about it?”

I turn in my seat to study him, the nervous expression on his face and the way he’s pulling at his lip while his eyes dart around the car, looking anywhere and everywhere but at me. I frown.

“Of course.”

He takes a breath and forces his gaze to meet mine. Whatever he reads in my expression must ring honest because he wets his lips to speak.

“I know we’re just testing the waters here, but I really do like you. A lot. And that freaks me out because if you decide this isn’t for you in the long run, I think the more time I spend with you the harder it will be. So I might try to make up excuses as to why this isn’t going to work or whatever and you should know it doesn’t have anything to do with you. You’re fantastic, that’s why I beat myself up about it,” he pauses a moment, then adds, “And secretly I’m hoping your parents will hate me.”

I blink. He sits across from me, waiting for me to say something.

“I think you need to find a new tactic, bub. I’ve already pulled that one.”

“Mina,” he sighs exasperatedly.

“Okay, fine,” I relent. “I’m going to tell you what I told myself about a week ago. Are you ready?”

Harry narrows his eyes at me, unahppy with how seriously I’m not taking him. I can’t help it; I’ve been living in serious depressed mode for the last month. Now that I’ve found this bit of peace, I’m not about to let him take it from me.

“You’re stupid. This is stupid. Get out of the car.”

With that, I push open the door and hop out. Harry groans but takes this as his que to drop it and follows my movements. I open the back seat and pull my bag out, slinging it over my shoulder before slamming the door behind me.

Harry still seems worked up, so when I meet him where he’s waiting for me at the front of his car, his bag already on his shoulder while he nervously taps a beat on his leg, I move for him. Taking him by surprise and with the awkward bulk of our bags between us, I plant a sloppy kiss on the edge of his mouth.

“We can talk about it later if you want, but it would be really cool if for once one of us wasn’t freaking out about this and we could maybe enjoy ourselves? Yeah?” I suggest, nudging his shoulder.

He cracks a smile, sending me a good-natured glare from the corner of his eye as if he knows I’m right. I twine my fingers with his again and pull him in the direction of the door, but he stops me by giving a heavy jerk to my arm. Startled and disoriented, he catches me and offers me a better kiss than the one I’ve just given him, square on the mouth.

“I’m not doing that in front of your parents,” he mumbles against my lips. “So I should maybe do it now.”

“By all means,” I laugh, and he gives me one last dramatic peck before releasing me.

I love how natural this seems to be coming to us. I haven’t been in many relationships, and none of them have ever been more than a few dates, but I’ve seen enough to know this is the best part. I can feel it too, this giddy honeymoon phase everyone goes through when they’re just starting to get used to the other and the constant presence in their life. Harry and I are going no where fast; we don’t really need to. For right now, this is enough.

Harry gives my hand a squeeze before releasing it to allow me to push open the door. Hesitantly, I poke my head into the foyer, surprised when I don’t immediately see my father or Felicity. I do hear Fleetwood Mac eminating from the kitchen, so I motion for Harry to follow me in and set his bag beside the door. Slowly, I make my way over to the doorframe to see Felicity cackling as she flips a chicken breast, my dad dancing and singing along to Dreams with a full glass of wine in his hand. She only laughs harder when she catches sight of Harry and I in the archway, prompting my dad to turn toward us with a doofy grin on his face.

“You Underhills have a penchant for impromptu performances,” Harry comments quietly to me just before my dad sweeps me into his arms and forces me around the room with him. He’s singing off-key and loudly, trying to get me to join in, but I’m giggling too hard. Felicity sighs and crosses her arms, leaning against the countertop. She shoots Harry a look that reads, “What can you do?” and he shrugs like he agrees. I stick my tongue out at both of them in turn.

When my dad is too out of breath and I’m stumbling over my feet from dizziness, he relinquishes me, pushing me in Harry’s direction with a firm enough shove that Harry has to reach out to catch me again.

“Two left feet,” he tells Harry. “Must’ve gotten it from her mother, I’m impeccible on the dance floor.”

“I can see that,” Harry laughs before offering his hand to my dad. “I’m Harry. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Cole,” my dad responds. “Pleasure to meet you as well. This is my wife, Felicity.”

My stepmum moves forward and greets Harry warmly with a hug. If he’s off-put by this, he doesn’t show it. Instead he embraces her easily.

“Welcome,” she says.

“Thank you for having me. You have a lovely home.”

“You haven’t even seen it yet,” Felicity chides. “Mina, show him around while we finish up here.”

I roll my eyes and turn, gesturing for Harry to follow me. He does so happily, grabbing both of our bags off the ground in the foyer. I lead the way up the stairs and show him to the guest room. It’s generically decorated, a French country theme that Felicity loves but makes me cringe. Harry doesn’t seem to mind as he throws his bag on the bed.

“Where’s your room?” he asks, an innocent enough question while holding my bag for me, but the wiggle of his eyebrows is suggestive and I give him a light punch in the arm.

“Across the hall,” I answer, stepping out of the room and pushing open the door to my own.

The room has been cleaned since I left it just a week ago and I make a mental note to thank Felicity. A patchwork quilt is spread tidily over the bed, tucked in at the corners with the sheets. The walls are sparse, but there are a few old photos hung here and there from various stages of my childhood, intermingled with photos of my mum when she was younger.

“This is her?” Harry asks, pointing to one of the photos after he’s dropped my bag to the ground with a soft thud.

“That’s her,” I confirm with a nod, coming over to stand beside him. He inspects the old photo carefully, a thoughtful expression on his face. I watch him from the corner of my eye.

“You look just like her,” he says.

“I do?”

This information is startling to me. My mum was gorgeous, long blonde hair and blue eyes, perfect teeth and a round face.

“You do,” he confirms. “It’s in the facial features, but it’s definitely there.”

I suppose it’s true that we both have sharp faces. My nose is more akin to hers, and our eyes take the same shape, but I’d always wish I’d gotten that blue-eyed gene, or even a lighter shade of brown to match hers.

Absently, Harry reaches over his hand and gives mine a gentle squeeze. When I turn to him, his gaze is still focused on the photo but he turns to me a moment later and offers a slight smile.

“Come on, I’ll show you the rest,” I offer, and he obliges in trailing behind me as I show him each room in turn. My dad and Felicity’s room is on the far end of the hall, my father’s study on the other. He seems interested in my dad’s bookshelf and I know he’s taking note of what he sees to bring up for discussion later. His fingers trail across the edge of my father’s pristine wooden desk as he circles the room and peers out the window, which overlooks a nature trail and further in the distance, the university.

“He’s a professor?”

“Yeah. Literature from the Romantic period.”

“Do you like it?” he asks.

I shrug. “It’s kind of hard for me to get through, honestly.”

“If you were in uni, what would you be studying?”

I glance over at him, where he stands silhouetted against the window. The sun highlights the sharp planes of his face and his green eyes are lit with interest. I wonder, not for the first time, what he’s doing wasting his time with me.

“History, maybe,” I say. When my voice fails me, I clear my throat. Harry doesn’t seem to take notice.

“Why history?”

“I’ve always been good at remembering dates and events. It’s been really helpful with what I do, and I like everything in order. I’m a huge fan of timelines.”

“I bet you are,” he grins, and I know he’s teasing.

Downstairs, that god-awful grandfather clock chimes and I cringe. Harry tilts his head to one side, listening.

“What on Earth was that?”

“My dad got this grandfather clock as a gift, but the chimes are broken. He says it has character, but the sound haunts my nightmares,” I answer with a shiver. Harry laughs, his arms crossed over his chest while he leans against the window. He seems relaxed here, and I decide I like the way he looks in my father’s study, somehow at home despite how out of place he should be in a pair of skinny jeans and a light blue button-up. Everything about him screams rockstar, but something tells me he’s just as at home here surrounded by bound books and leather as he is on a tour bus with his mates.

Neither of us move, only standing inches apart while we look at one another. We’re not touching, but it feels intimate somehow. I can hear the steady intake of his breath, the way the floorboards creek beneath his weight when he shifts. He’s staring at me with that open way he sometimes does, like he’s trying to figure something out. Downstairs I can hear my dad and Felicity shuffling around, setting heavier dishes on the wood of the table. I think we should probably get going, that dinner is about to be finished, but something holds me back from moving. Maybe it’s the way I can sense Harry is having another serious thoughtful moment and I don’t want him to think I’m brushing him off.

“What are you thinking?” I finally break the silence.

His brows raise, surprised by either my question or that I’ve caught onto the way I know his mind must be reeling. In his quietest moments is when I know he’s working something out in his thoughts.

“Nothing,” he answers.

“You’re lying,” I point out.

“And how do you know that?” he smirks.

“I just do.”

His lips part like he’s going to play it off as another joke, but he doesn’t. Instead, he closes his mouth, his tongue darting between his lips before he sucks in a breath to really answer my question.

“I’m trying to figure out how to read you,” he finally answers.

“How do you mean?”

“I just mean you’re more closed off than I am. Not that it’s a bad thing, but you don’t really vocalize how you’re feeling. And sometimes that drives me crazy, but other times I think I can pick it up in other ways if I pay enough attention. I’m trying to work on that.”

“I’m not closed off,” I protest.

He smiles, shooting me a skeptical look.

“How am I closed off?”

“You never really tell me much of anything without me having to ask first,” he says. “Do you realize you’ve never even told me how you’re feeling about this?”

I frown, pulling my lip between my teeth. I don’t need to ask elaboration to know what he’s talking about. I hadn’t even thought about it. I was so sure he should have known from the start how strongly I felt toward him.

“I flew to Portugal,” I offer lamely, and he lets out a chuckle.

“I know,” he agrees. “And that’s why I’m fairly confident you like me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear it.”

I’m frozen beneath his stare. I can hear my heartbeat thundering in my ears, but I’m not sure why I’m so scared to say it. It’s been obvious to me for weeks now how I feel about Harry. I’ve come to terms with it, dealt with it every day until it’s become this constant longing I’ve grown so used to it’s just a part of who I am now. If I’m not with him, I’m wondering what he’s doing and wishing I were with him. When we’re together, I can’t imagine being anywhere but by his side.

But he doesn’t know that. How does he not know that?

“I like you,” I say, my voice coming out in a breathy whisper. “I really like you.”

He grins, his eyes falling to the ground in almost a bashful way. I like it so much I can’t help but close the distance between us, my arms reaching up to his neck while he responds by wrapping his around my torso. Held close, he requests, “Say it again?”

I laugh, burying my face into his neck and inhaling his scent. He laughs with me, his hold on me tightening. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to this, the free access I have to hug or kiss him whenever the whim strikes me.

“I want to be with you,” I say instead of repeating my words from earlier. Harry hums contentedly, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Even if you want my parents to hate you.”

“They’re really nice. I think I’d have to be pretty awful for them to hate me.”

“Even if you were terrible, they’d probably still like you a little just because I do, and that’s what matters to them.”

Downstairs, Felicity calls us to dinner and we break apart. We sheepishly exchange smiles before making our way to the dining room where Felicity and my father are waiting, a knowing expression on their faces. I blush and ask my dad to pass me a chicken breast.

–

I wake up with an ache in my chest. The sun is already near its peak in the sky, indicating I’ve slept in later than usual and Harry is already gone.

My dad had asked him to a round of golf this morning, which Harry had happily accepted. They’re both old men, so I’m sure they’re off having fun together. Mostly I’m wondering what they’re talking about and if they’re discussing me. I wouldn’t put it past my dad to have the whole “intentions” discussion and I almost want to crawl back under the blankets in sheer embarrassment at the thought of it all, but I have something more important to do.

The hardwood floors are chilled with the cool air thrumming throughout the house. Felicity is having brunch with some friends of hers from a book club she’s joined recently, so I have the house to myself as I strip myself and step into the shower.

The hot water feels good on my back, the rhythmic beating of it working out all the tension I feel in my muscles. I stretch beneath the water, my spine cracking when I twist this way and that. I feel much better after working some shampoo and conditioner into my hair. Once my body is thoroughly lathered in my favorite body wash, I rinse off and step out into the humid bathroom. With a towel wrapped around me, I make my way back to my room and find some clothes to wear.

I’m missing Gatsby’s presence as I go through my morning. My dad’s allergies were horrendous the last time I brought her with me, so I asked Tinley if she’d be interested in cat-sitting. She said if it meant she could roll around in my “luxurious apartment” then she was game. Mostly, I think she was in it for the 72 inch television and the free groceries.

I turn on some music to keep me company while I blow dry my hair and apply make-up. I put on a casual dress and even go as far as putting an old headband on before deeming myself presentable.

Without a car to get around in, I slip out the front door and squint at the sudden onslaught of sunlight. It’s warm out, but the breeze is nice and the sun will leave a flattering tan on my shoulders, so I make the best of it. My destination is only a block and a half away, and I’ve always enjoyed the walk through my neighborhood. The houses are nicer around here, tall brick and a true example of English architecture. There are kids on the street playing football and I wave at a few of them as I pass.

It’s nice to be back in the neighborhood I spent the majority of my time in as a child. Everything is familiar, every bump and crack in the sidewalk the same as it always has been. The trees are nearly glowing with green above me, and I inhale the scent I’ve come to associate with home; freshly cut grass and car exhaust.

The cathedral is up ahead, a sprawling stone building with tall spires and turrets reaching up into the sky. I used to pretend it was a castle, happy to follow my parents there to church every Sunday morning for mass. After mum died, dad and I both fell off the religion wagon, but it’s still something I like to visit whenever I have spare time at home.

I stroll the walkway at a leisurely pace, knowing my destination but not in a real hurry to get there. My phone buzzes in the pocket of my dress and I pull it out to see Harry inquiring as to my whereabouts. I type back a response before letting the phone fall back into my pocket and continuing on my way toward the chapel.

Choir practice must be letting out because I pass a mass of people with folders in their hands, all talking and laughing as they make their way out of the two tall wooden doors that lead to the chapel. They let me pass without comment, not concerned with my presence.

The main basilica is cool and dark. For the most part it is empty, save for the few people waiting for confession and a couple of stragglers fumbling with their prayer beads while they whisper Hail Marys quietly to themselves. I’m here for neither of these things as I slip into one of the dark wood church pews and sink into the musty velvet cushion.

When I was younger and restless during services, my mum used to try to find ways to keep my mind occupied. She’d ask me to count the cherubs painted on the ornate ceiling or behind the pulpit, the paint chipping with age despite the efforts of art preservists across the country. Other times she’d hand me a hymnal and ask me to guess which songs we’d sing during the service, but I was always rubbish at it. I liked counting more.

She’d squeeze my hand and I’d hold to it tightly as I counted silently to myself, but I’d never completed the task. There were far too many angels in the paintings, and too many places where the paint had faded or otherwise eroded away to tell what had once been there. It had instilled a love for art in me, though, something I still enjoy looking at to this day.

I’m on thirty-two when I hear soft footsteps padding toward me, then the creak of the floorboards as a weight sinks beside me. I pause in my count to look over at him, his curls long and loose, falling everywhere. He pushes them away from his face as he peers over at me with a kind smile. At least he’s had the decency to button his shirt more than half-way today.

“What are you doing?” he whispers.

“Counting cherubs,” I answer. At his furrowed brow, I explain, “My mum and I used to do it. Kept me occupied during mass.”

He nods and leans back, his arm stretching out behind me along the wood of the pew. I can feel his bicep behind my neck and the warmth is comforting as I offer him a smile and turn back to the paintings.

It’s fifteen minutes later when I hear him declare, “Seventy-three.”

“Bugger,” I mutter. “I’m at sixty-eight.”

“Did you get the ones tugging on Jesus’ robe?”

“Yeah. And the ones peeling away by the altar.”

“Hmm. Must’ve missed them elsewhere,” he comments.

I shrug, letting my eyes fall shut. They’re burning from all the concentrating I’ve been doing and it feels nice to give them some reprieve. My head leans into Harry’s shoulder and he lets it without complaint.

“Your dad guessed you might be here,” he muses.

“He knows me pretty well.”

“Said your mum is buried here. Have you gone to see her?”

“Not yet,” I answer. “I thought I’d come here first and work up the nerve. It’s not always easy.”

“Why do you do it, then?” he asks, his voice soft. It still manages to echo in the vastness of the empty room, and I smile at the sound of a hundred Harrys speaking quietly in my ears.

“I just have to,” I say. “It’s difficult to explain, but sometimes I just need to talk to her.”

I feel Harry shift beside me, and I know he’s looking at me but I’m not ready to open my eyes just yet. I’m too comfortable, too emotionally drained, and yet I haven’t even made it over to see my mum.

“Do you miss her a lot?”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “I do.”

“You’re lucky to have Felicity.”

“She’s really fantastic,” I agree. “I love her, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss my mum.”

“I know,” he says, and I finally force open my eyes to look at him. He’s somber, but his eyes are kind. I’m happy to have him.

“She would love you,” I say.

“You think?” he asks.

“Mhmm.”

He looks thoughtful and I smile before forcing myself up. Harry hesitates to join me, but when I offer him my hand he accepts it.

“You sure you want me tagging along?” he asks.

“Positive.”

He follows me down the walkway toward the path we entered through. With his hand in mine, I feel a sense of peace as we round the corner and enter the cemetary through an ornate iron archway. I could navigate this place in the dark with my eyes closed, so we find the grave marker easily.

“Lynne Elane Underhill,” he reads aloud.

“Elane is my grandmother’s name,” I offer helpfully.

“It’s lovely.”

I nod, studying the sharp cut of the headstone, the way it curves at the top and straightens on the sides. The lettering is simple and all capital letters, carved into the light stone. It’s a little weathered with age, but mostly new-looking. The flowers laid out are fresh and I know I’m not the first member of the Underhill clan to make this trek this week. Dad is a frequent visitor, and Felicity has been known to stop by as well.

“Grandmum threw a fit when we wanted to bury her here,” I tell him, pulling my hand from his only to take a seat beside the headstone. Harry watches me intently. “Dad and I argued that she’d made the decision to spend her life in England, so she wouldn’t have wanted to be buried in Nebraskan soil. I think she’d always felt sort of caged there. Plus there was the logistics of flying her back to the States for a burial and in the end, it just made sense for her to stay with us.”

Harry nods, but stays rooted in place. I beckon for him to join me and he takes a step in my direction, lowering himself beside me. We sit silently beside one another with my mum’s grave before us. I wish she could have the opportunity to meet him. I wish she could have been here to talk me through all of this, offer me advice and hold me when I’d broken my own heart over him. But most of all, I wish I could see her face when she felt it in her own heart, the way she must have felt when she met my dad, and the way I felt when I met Harry. The way it feels to find your match, that lightheaded giddiness that takes over, an emotion only she would have had the capacity to fully comprehend. She would have been over the moon.

Instead, I sit beside the boy I love on a plot of soil my mother has staked as hers for the rest of eternity and breathe in the summer air. It’s not perfect, this life I’ve built without her, but it’s pretty damn close. When I glance over at Harry, I think it’s about to get better.