The Love Club

I wake slowly, dredged out of unconsciousness by the rumble of my stomach. I’m starving, but my head is also throbbing and I don’t really want to move.

My face is nestled into Harry’s shoulder, my body sidled up to the edge of his. He’s warm, which is nice because despite the fact that we’re wrapped up in sheets and each other, my body temperature feels uncomfortably cold. I suddenly realize I’m sleeping in my underwear, and memories from last night flood back to me. I cringe, and then immediately regret it because I think Harry might already be conscious, just waiting on me.

“I know you’re awake. I can tell by your breathing,” Harry comments.

“No, I’m definitely still asleep,” I answer, groaning as I roll over onto my side, facing away from him.

“I think we have some things to talk about,” he says.

“Perhaps,” I allow. “But I need to vomit, first.”

I run a hand through my hair as I stumble from the bed. I’m trying to take the sheets with me, but Harry’s still wrapped up in it, so I suppose I’m stuck milling about in just my underwear. It’s odd to be this bare before someone, but it’s not all together uncomfortable. Even though I can feel Harry’s gaze on my skin, I find I’m no longer too shy near him. It’s a small step in the right direction, the first of many, apparently.

My stomach churns uncomfortably just as I hit the bathroom. I flick on the light and find I have no time to shut the door before I’m bent over the toilet and heaving up last night’s drinks and appetizers. I’m in so much pain that I can feel my eyes watering. My muscles are sore and I feel so violently ill that I have to lower myself to my knees to keep steady.

“I’d offer to hold your hair, but you don’t have much for me to hold,” Harry jokes. From the corner of my eye I can see him in the doorframe in just his pants, his hair disheveled from sleep and where my fingers clumsily brushed through it last night. He moves toward me, taking a seat with his back against the wall, and I lean forward to throw up again. It’s not my most flattering angle, but his hand finds the small of my back and rubs gentle circles on it until I’ve empied as much of my stomach as I can.

Reaching forward, I flush the toilet and let out a moan. Harry scoots to the side a bit to allow me room beside him. He has one leg oustretched and the other bent, supporting his arm at the knee. His spare hand holds a bottle of water he must have found before appearing in the doorway. He offers it to me and I thank him quietly before taking a few swigs. Swallowing hurts and my throat feels raw. I sit the bottle down and lean my head on his shoulder, my eyes falling shut.

“You shouldn’t have made me drink so much,” I say, and Harry scoffs. I can’t help the smile that comes to my face.

“I believe it was Louis who encouraged you to unhinge your jaw like a snake and pour liquor down your throat.”

“I’ll blame you anyway,” I tell him, and it’s a joke that immediately falls flat.

We fall into silence, and there’s a tension there that makes me feel uneasy. I want to know what he’s thinking, but I’m afraid to. I want to apologize again, but I feel like it’s still the wrong thing. I’ve never felt so uneasy around Harry before, but there’s so much that has happened, so much to discuss.

“What happened last night?” Harry asks softly, and I don’t know why, but my heart picks up pace in my chest.

“I dunno,” I murmur. “I just don’t want it to happen again.”

“You’ve got to talk to me, Mina. We’ve got to start somewhere.”

“I know,” I sigh. “But I think I need to eat first. And maybe put on some clothes.”

Harry smiles softly at me, turning his head and pressing a soft kiss where my shoulder meets my arm. He pushes himself up, then offers me a hand, which I accept. I pick up the clothes from the bathroom floor that he offered me last night and slip them on easily while he digs around to find himself a pair of sweatpants. When that’s all settled, I lead the way toward the kitchen.

It’s bright in here, due to the wall of glass that lets the light in. I groan and Harry pats me good naturedly on the back. I head to the refrigerator to find a carton of grapefruit juice I know is hidden in there somewhere. Feeling triumphant when I locate it, I shut the door and pull down two glasses. Harry promptly sets a bottle of Tylenol on the counter, and I grin at him. “I knew there was a reason I keep you around.”

“There must be,” he agrees with a roll of his hazy green eyes. He’s getting to work at the stove, setting a griddle out for pancakes. I pour out a couple of the white pills from the bottle and down it with my juice. Just by the placebo effect, I already feel slightly better.

I head to one of the stools at the island and set both glasses down there. The stovetop is connected at the island as and Harry stands across from me, getting one of those Bisquick shake and pour bottles of pancake mix ready. I’m content to watch him with my chin in my hand, trying to puzzle through what exactly I can say to him when we start this discussion. How do you find the courage to voice your insecurities aloud? What will he think if I do?

I watch as he pours the batter onto the griddle, running a hand through his hair as he bites on his lip in concentration. When he’s finished, he gives it a moment to cook and reaches for the grapefruit juice I’ve poured him. Wetting his lips and setting down the cup, he casually says, “I think I might be falling in love with you.”

I have no response to this except to blink. Harry glances at me warily.

It’s so unexpected and quiet, and not at all the sort of thing you profess before flipping pancakes. Doesn’t he know this is something he’s supposed to save for some big romantic moment? This big reaveal of how he’s truly feeling is supposed to happen on some sunsetted beach, right? Not while I’m hungover and without make-up and with bags like purple bruises beneath my eyes.

“I mean I think it’s been an ongoing process since I met you, but I’m noticing it a bit more recently. I like sharing a bed with you and I like talking about you to my friends. You drive me mad sometimes and I think we have a lot to talk about, especially after last night, but I want to work on it. Whatever’s not right here, I want to make right, which is sort of different for me. I don’t think I’ve been in the right mindset for a relationship for a while, but things are different with you and I need you to tell me what’s going on so we can fix this.”

He’s rambling and I know I should probably say something to stop him, but I don’t know what. I’m to immersed in looking at him, the way his long hair flops to one side. He has a few breakouts on his chin and his eyes are bleary like he didn’t sleep well, which I know is probably true from the night we’ve had. There’s slight stubble on his chin and above his upper lip, where he’s been trying desperately hard lately to grow a mustache. I like to tease him about it and he inevitably ends up locating his electric shaver before he jokingly rubs his face against mine. He’s nervous and focusing too much on the pancakes, spatula in one hand and the other preoccupied with pulling at his lip.

“And I’m not saying that to freak you out or anything, because I don’t think we’re fully there yet. But I’m just saying it’s something that will be there in the future, I think. I could definitely be in love with you at some point, but right now it’s just an ongoing process...”

He trails off with a frown, brows furrowed as I push up from my seat at the island. I wonder what I must look like to him, wearing his tee shirt and in desperate need of a good bath. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me, what of my emotions my face portrays.

I pull his face to mine and press a hard kiss to his mouth. He responds immediately, dropping his spatula on the counter as one of his hands settles at my waist and the other cups my cheek. His lips, slightly chapped, move in tandem with mine, a rhythm all our own. I don’t say it, but I think he can feel it in the way we touch.

I love you I love you I love you I love you

We stay like this for as long as we can, until we’re both gasping for breath and our lips ache. Harry murmurs, “I think the pancakes are burning.” I take half a step back, dropping my hands from him so he can take them from the griddle and stack them onto a plate for me. He’s red in the face, from his confession or from lack of oxygen, I’m not sure. I only know I can’t help the smile on my face when he hands me the plate, which he eagerly returns.

He’s set up a syrup and butter station and once I’ve fixed myself up, I dig in. They’re a little crisp at the edges, but definitely pancakes. Harry pours batter again to make himself a stack. When they’re done, he takes the seat next to me, eyes darting over to me every few minutes. He wants me to initiate this, and as much as I really don’t want to, I think after the events of last night I owe it to him.

“I think I need to go back to London,” I say, and Harry pauses in his actions.

“What?”

“Not in a bad sort of way,” I rush to correct. “I just think maybe we’re laying it on a bit thick. I miss working and I want to get back to that, but also I think maybe we’re suffocating each other. At some point we’re going to have to make this work, right? It can’t just be all or nothing all the time, and that’s how I’ve been going about this...”

Harry lifts his fork to his mouth, literally chewing this over. After a moment, he asks, “How do you mean?”

“It’s hard to explain...”

Harry shoots me a look that tells me he’s not going to let me off that easily. With a sigh, I rake my fingers through my hair and try to find the right words.

“I guess I have more insecurities than is ideal... And I maybe overcompensate a bit.”

“Like last night?”

I wince, cutting into the last bit of pancake left on my plate. I swirl it in the syrup before glancing over at him, where he’s doing the same.

“I really am sorry about that. I didn’t mean to... I don’t know what I meant to do, but it wasn’t that...” My eyes downturn as I shove the last bite of breakfast in my mouth before sitting down my utensil.

“You know that’s not important to me, right?” Harry asks. He sits down his fork as well, pushing his plate away so he can lean forward on the countertop. “I never want you to feel pressured to do anything you’re not comfortable with and you mean more to me than sex.”

“No, I know,” I assure him. “I was just drunk, and you were ignoring me all night. Then I saw you with that girl and...”

I trail off as I watch Harry shift uncomfortably in his seat. He wets his lips like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. I wait quietly while he collects his thoughts, my fingers picking at the hem of his tee shirt. It seems we’re both on unsteady footing.

“I shouldn’t have gone about last night the way I did,” he finally admits. “I just didn’t want to argue it with you and I’m still not comfortable with being seen with you publicly. But at the same time, it’s easy to see how that affects you and I’m beginning to think we could work on a compromise there. Regardless, I’m sure there are already pictures everywhere of me helping you from the club, so it’s a moot point now.”

He bites his lip for a moment before leaning his head down to scratch at it. His hair obscures his face for a moment before he pushes it back again. “As for the girl, I honestly couldn’t tell you her name. She was a fan, she wanted a photo but I told her no. Then I felt guilty, so I let her hang around for a bit. I didn’t think about how that would come off to you, but you were with Louis dancing and I thought she’d probably be gone by the time you got back.”

He’s looking at me with those eyes, and I know he’s sincere. It’s possible that my drunken mind took things and ran with it, but there’s more on my mind than that.

“I trust you, Harry, but you didn’t exactly push her away, either.”

“Sometimes the lines between being polite and being flirtatious blur,” he admits sheepishly, and I roll my eyes. It’s a serious admission, but one that’s so honest and true to his character that I can’t help but smile. “I’ll work on it.”

“Okay,” I allow.

“Okay,” he agrees with a grin. It’s hard to be upset with him when he’s looking at me like that.

“Okay, game plan,” I declare, pushing up from my seat. “Do you have a white board?”

“Why on Earth would I have a white board?” he retorts, collecting our plates and rounding the island toward the dishwasher.

“Do you at the very least have graph paper?” He shakes his head and side-eyes me like I’m the strangest person he’s ever met. “No Post-Its?”

He makes no response and I groan aloud. “Computer paper, then. Jesus.”

Harry laughs as he shuts the dishwasher and runs his hands under the faucet. He places the syrup back in a cupboard and the butter back in the fridge before disappearing around the corner. There’s a desktop computer sat on a desk with a printer, and I hear him shut a drawer before returning with that and an assortment of highlighters in his hand.

“You love color coding,” he jokes, but I’m too thrilled with the five different neon choices to be bothered by it. Planting a kiss on his cheek, I take the paper and markers from him and resume the position at the island. Harry takes the seat beside me again, pretending to be offput by my neurotic side but secretly amused.

I write his name and mine at the top of the paper in two different colors. Making an asterick bullet point beneath my name, I write return to London. Beneath that, I repeat the process with, get back to work.

I push the cap back on that marker and switch to Harry’s, which is green. In his column, I write go on tour followed by take care of bandmates. He makes a face at this bullet, but I ignore him as I choose purple as a third color, making a separate space between each of our names.

“What’s that one for?” he asks, brows furrowed as he leans in to see what I’m doing.

“Both of us,” I answer, popping the cap off the highlighter with my teeth.

“Germs,” he teases, but I only punch him in the arm with my free hand. In the third column, I list keep in touch daily via Facetime, iMessage, or e-mail.

“So phone calls are out then,” he jokes, and he’s really starting to get on my nerves. To appease him I add a carrot with phone calls written in my smallest hand. When I glare over at him, he’s wearing his biggest shit-eating grin.

“May I continue?”

“By all means.”

I make another two bullets with, spend two weeks together at some point during the tour followed by visit respective families during breaks. I feel accomplished when I put the cap back on the purple highlighter and slide the paper toward him for assessing. He scans over it for a moment before reaching over and wrangling the purple highlighter from me. I frown at his behavior, but he doesn’t seem bothered by my looks of disapproval.

He adds attend management party to the list in his unsteady hand, and I groan. “I’ll have to write the whole thing over again!” I complain.

“I kept your code!”

“Consistency!” I whine, gesturing to his obvious deviation from my handwriting. I’ll have to get him a calligraphy set for his birthday or something. “Anyway, when’s this dumb party?”

“Tonight,” he answers casually, and I narrow my gaze.

“Well thank you for the heads up and the formal invitation,” I say sarcastically. “I did indeed go shopping just a few days ago with this event in mind. I’m so prepared.”

“Throw on what you always wear, you’ll look fine.”

I can’t even fathom a response to that. He’ll probably just throw on some ridiculously patterned shirt, button a single button, and call it good. It’s infuriating, and somehow also extremely endearing.

Mostly annoying, though. Definitely annoying.

I don’t grace him with an answer before disappearing out one of the sliding doors and heading back to my guest room. I need to pack and figure out something to wear tonight.

It’s odd to make a decision so quick, yet so firm. I’ll be going home tomorrow afternoon. I’ll book a flight and be done, and it will be final. Harry will enjoy another few days free before tour, and then we’ll both be busy enough to not drive each other mad. It’s a fine plan, one that makes me feel better because I drew it up and put it in pink ink. Still, I think it will be difficult to be away from Harry after growing so accustomed to his presence. Gatsby is in for a lot of cuddling in the near future.

I start a bath running while I sort through the contents of my suitcase. I still have enough outfits to choose from, but I’m not sure what is the most appropriate for a party involving Harry’s management. It’s not as if I haven’t come in contact with them before, being on the tour, but somehow this feels different. I suppose it’s because I’m being presented in a different way, no longer an employeee but the girlfriend of one of their best selling acts.

I decide on a floral patterened romper with a gold pleated headband. Laying that out on the bed, I finish folding the rest of my things and have it all neatly set to go, except my toiletries which I’ll need for a while longer.

I sink into the bath, feeling my muscles untense one at a time. Immersing myself beneath the warm water, I allow myself to think things are wrapping up rather nicely for me.

-

It’s a garden party, which is good because it’s familiar territory. Harry isn’t underdressed and I’m not overdressed, and it seems we’ve somehow managed to meet in the middle once again.

There are far less people I recognize than I thought there would be. I encourage Harry to leave me by the cocktail table with Tinley while he makes the rounds. Tinley is just as thrilled because she knows literally no one here. We sip champagne and pass the time by tossing grapes at each other and trying to catch it in our mouths. Not the most ladylike activity, but no one challenges it when they pass us.

“Looks like you two have made up,” she comments, switching out her empty flute for a full one. She takes a sip of the golden liquid and smiles over at me.

“We worked it out,” I shrug.

“In the bedroom?” she asks suggestively, wiggling her eyebrows. I scoff and kick her shin with the soft edge of my flat.

“Just because you and Niall are rabbits doesn’t mean everyone else is,” I snap.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she answers with another long drag of champagne.

“Niall accidentally texts me sometimes instead of Harry. I know what I’m talking about.”

Her eyes widen and she straightens her back before glancing around the lawn for a blonde boy milling about. When she has her sights set on him, she stands and pushes in that direction. I follow, eager to see where this is going. I’m not disappointed when I watch Tinley grab him by the ear and jerk him to attention from where he’s been chatting with Harry and some executive I can’t remember the name of. With a chuckle, the exec sneaks away rather than watch whatever is about to unfold. A rookie mistake, if you ask me.

“Stop telling your bandmates about our sex life!” she hisses.

“What are you talking about?!” he exclaims in horror.

“Mina says you tell Harry everything!”

“Only because he isn’t getting any! He could use some stories!”

I gasp, wheeling to look at Harry who is slowly backing away as if he knows this isn’t going to end well for him. “Harry!” I all but growl, smacking him hard on the arm with my clutch. I repeat the process a few times before he’s throwing up his hands, trying to defend himself.

“I was defending your honor! Stop hurting me!”

I give him a good couple of wacks before finally giving up. His hands are too large and blocking too much prime space for calculated blows. I think I’ve made my point anyway, by the way Harry is sorely rubbing at a place in his ribs where I hit him good.

“Virginity is an illusion, God is dead, and you and I,” Tinley directs this last bit away from Harry and toward a frightened looking Irish lad, “are not finished talking about this yet.”

She steals him away from us with an “excuse me” that is far too polite for a girl with such a fierce fire in her eyes. I can only shake my head in wonder of the girl I’ve somehow befriended and Harry does the same beside me.

“She’s a firecracker,” he comments.

“She’s good for him. He deserves all the hell he has coming.”

“Well, no arguing with that,” he says with a chuckle. He turns toward me and offers his arm, which I accept despite the fact I was literally beating up on it just a few moments ago.

Much like Harry’s compound, this house has an amazing view of the LA skyline on the horizon. My feet are tickled by the grass as we walk toward a glass railing. When we stop, I don’t let go of Harry’s arm. Instead, I lean my head on his shoulder.

“You sure you wanna go back tomorrow? You could stay and we could just actively avoid each other,” he jokes. I smile, because I can tell beneath the light tone it’s a serious inquiry.

“I think this is what I need to do,” I shrug. “But they say absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

Harry nods and stays silent for a moment. Then, he asks, “Why are you always the one leaving?”

He’s still joking, the way he asks in faux offense. Still, I decide to answer honestly.

“I’m not the only one.”

And it’s true. Harry’s a satellite, orbiting at a faster pace than I can actively follow. But I think that’s okay, because we’ll find a way to make it work regardless. He’ll be back before I know it, with all the e-mail inquiries I’ve been ignoring in the last few months. I’ll find myself through work, and then I’ll find myself with him again.

“I wish things were different,” he hums, pressing his lips to the crown of my head.

“I don’t,” I reply, turning to look at him. “All of this is what makes you you. You love your job, and I’d never want you to resent it. Especially on my behalf.”

“You’re incredible. Did you know that?” he questions, and I only laugh before his mouth finds mine for a short peck.

“You might’ve mentioned it.”

We’re still grinning at each other like a couple of fools when Niall reapproaches us, looking a little worse for wear.

“What happened to you?” Harry asks, eyeing his friend. His cheeks are red, probably from whatever torturous things Tinley has done or threatened to do in the near future.

“I’m in love with her,” is his answer, and I stifle a smile into Harry’s shoulder.

“Good for you, mate,” Harry says, clapping his friend on the back.

“Yeah,” Niall agrees, rubbing the back of his neck. He peeks over his shoulder as if to confirm Tinley is no where near us before he says, “I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

Harry, who has previously been taking a drink of my champagne, promptly chokes on it. My eyes widen, equally in shock. Niall is unphased by either of our reactions, standing confidently with a hand on his hip and the other leaning on the railing. He has his head cocked around so he can watch the aforementioned brunette as she inhales some cocktail shrimp at an appetizer table.

“You’re joking, right?” Harry finally sputters.

“No,” Niall responds, turning to look at his friend with a look of bewilderment. “Why would I be joking? Zayn’s getting married...”

“Yeah! To a girl he’s known for years! I’ve known Mina longer than you’ve known Tinley!”

“So?” Niall snaps. “When you know, you know.”

He says this with a look in my direction, and I feel my cheeks heating up. Harry twists to look at me with a “would you get a load of this guy” look on his face. When he sees my facial expression, he frowns.

“Mina, come on. Back me up here.”

“I dunno...” I hesitate, and Harry’s brows raise. “I think if Niall feels confident about it and it’s something he wants to do, he might as well give it a shot.”

“Mina,” he pleads, as if begging me to see reason, but I can’t say much else. I know I’m a large part of why Niall is so eager to put a ring on Tinley’s finger, but it’s not exactly the time or place to launch into my particular gift. I settle for defending a friend’s seemingly rash decision.

“Have you even thought any of this out?”

“Nah, I thought I’d just twist a bread tie on her fourth finger and ask her if she would golly-gee-me-oh-my please marry a poor Irishman like myself,” Niall’s eyes practically roll into the back of his head. “I’m not an idiot.”

“You want to ask a girl to marry you after dating her for approximately two months. You’re an idiot.”

“Harry,” I warn.

“Mina,” he chastises.

“Ultimately it doesn’t matter what you think, you’re not the one proposing,” Niall informs him, his face heating up in his anger. “I was going to ask you to help me pick out a ring, but you can forget it now.”

“I will!”

“Good!”

“Great!”

“Fine!”

Niall stalks off in the opposite direction while I watch on with apologetic eyes. Once he’s gone, I give Harry a hard shove.

“What’s wrong with you? He’s your best mate!”

“He’s making a mistake!”

“Well that’s your opinion, isn’t it? Couldn’t you at least pretend to be supportive?”

“Who spur of the moment just decides to propose?” Harry asks incredulously.

“No one! That’s what I’m saying! I think he’s put more thought into this than you’re giving him credit for,” I defend.

“If that’s true, he wouldn’t just now be bringing it up,” Harry scowls.

“He would if he suspected this would be your reaction!”

Harry frowns at me before turning his gaze toward the skyline. I silently stew beside him for a few moments before pushing myself from the rail.

“I’m getting another drink.”

“Mina...” he says, and the tone of his voice implores me to turn and face him. When I do he has a gentle look on his face and I know he’s already beginning to regret his outburst.

“Go talk to him, Harry. I can’t do everything for you,” I snap. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair before nodding to himself. I leave feeling vaguely annoyed, but mostly satisfied.

Someone is walking by with a tray of more champagne, and I switch out my flute, thanking the man quietly as I march over to Tinley. She looks relieved to see me after being left alone for too long.

“Your boyfriend is weird,” she tells me, gesturing to where Harry and Niall are having a hushed conversation in the corner. He has his arms crossed over his chest, one hand pulling at his lip as he listens to whatever it is Niall is saying.

“I could say the same of yours,” I tell her, watching Niall as he wildly hand gestures.

“Cheers,” she says, lifting her glass to meet mine. With a giggle bubbling at my lips, I touch my flute to hers.

“Cheers.”

-

I’ve seen a lot of airports.

I can’t help this thought as Harry pulls into a space near departures and insists on walking in with me. There could be paparazzi around any corner, but he won’t be swayed. I’m not sure whether to feel triumphant or annoyed at his insistence, especially when I’m trying to do him a favor.

Sometimes it feels like we’ll never be on the same page. Sometimes it feels like we always are.

Harry unloads the trunk of his car with my bags that need to be checked and tips the airport concierge far more than is necessary. He keeps his hand on my lower back as we enter the building together, my carry on thrown over his shoulder in a small duffle. It mostly contians my computer and a book, with a blanket and some snacks stuffed on there. Harry was overly tedious about snack packing, but I found it too adorable to comment on.

“Passport?” he asks.

“Got it.”

“ID?”

“Harry, I made two double-check lists. You won’t beat me at my own game.”

“I know,” he smiles at me. He comes to a halt near the escalators that will take me to security.

“I’ll see you in a few weeks, you loon,” I tell him, bumping him playfully with my hip. He catches me at my waist and pulls me firmly against him.

“I know. I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too,” I respond. “See you soon.”

It’s a dismissal of sorts, because I know if I don’t get out of his embrace, I’ll lose my willpower to leave in the first place. If Harry knew how easily I could be swayed, I’d be in big trouble. I dread the day he discovers this weakness within me.

I pull away with the intent of that being the end of it, but his hands find my cheeks and he kisses me hard. I’m lost for a moment in his intoxicating smell and the way in which his lips move against mine. Then, as quickly as he started, he releases me and I stumble back. He sends me his cockiest smile and begins to walk away.

I watch after him, frozen, thinking of another airport on another continent. I’d been more determined to leave then than I am now, scared of what I felt for him and what I thought he felt for someone else. I’d nearly ended this before we even started, and it’s only by mere fluke I recovered. Now that I’ve tasted his lips, I know it’s something I never want to go without.

I’m thinking about what he said to me yesterday, about falling in love and the difference between that and being in love. It was such a bold move for him, chancing those words to fall from his lips with the uncertainty of how I would react or feel. I’m so lucky to never have to question this, to never wander, and suddenly it all seems very unfair that I’ve been keeping this to myself.

“Harry!”

He’s near the automatic doors now, a good twenty feet away when he pauses and looks over his shoulder at me. His brows are furrowed above those green eyes I could fall into forever.

This is it, I think to myself. He’s all there is for me. So why would I have any reservations about telling him anything but the truth?

“I’m in love with you!” I call, loud enough to carry through the lobby and the space between us. It takes him a full minute to process this information before he’s grinning at me, and I’m grinning back. We want to kiss again, I think, one of those big dramatic airport kisses where I drop my bag and jump into his arms, but there’s paparazzi lurking just outside the doors and I know if I don’t make it to security now, I’ll miss my flight.

Instead, I shoot him a coy smile and turn on my heel to the escalator, riding it down to where I need to go, because ultimately my heart beats for him but it calls for London. And as much as I want to turn and look at him again, I want that image of him engrained in my mind, to be the last thing I see for a long while. The way his dimples dig into his cheeks and his eyes light up, how he chuckles to himself and runs a hand through his hair, like I’m the maddest thing to have ever happened to him.

Yes, I think I’ll keep that image with me. I’ve always been sort of a hopeless romantic.