Lightheaded

Late August, 2013

New York was everything Jillian could have hoped for and more. Big and bright and bustling. Every cliche and mannerism came to life under those city lights and Jillian was convinced there was some kind of magic in them. That maybe if she spent enough time under them, learning from them, letting them guide her, it might seep into her skin like her fading tan once had.

Their apartment, by typical standards, was nothing spectacular. But by Manhattan standards, it was a goddamn palace.

They'd gotten lucky. Robin’s brother’s kid had transferred across the country and his parents had been stuck with a little apartment in lower Manhattan, walking distance from Jillian and Harry’s classes. They weren’t looking to sell, but they didn’t want it to sit there vacant, so they gave them a deal; a very large family discount on their rent and an (unpaid) internship for Harry at his step uncle's company. (One he didn’t particularly want.)

And so they couldn’t refuse.

Unpacking was something Jillian was entirely unfamiliar with. Her family had moved to their little suburb outside of Orlando when she was only three, she didn’t remember any of it. She was clueless when it came to the moving process, so she’d left most of it to Harry to coordinate (he was good at organizing) and then he’d left her with the actual unpacking while he went to pick up something for lunch.

She was surrounded by cardboard boxes, piled and stacked and shoved in corners. She thought it was funny how you never realized how many material belongings you had until you either had to pack them all up in boxes or leave them behind for an uncertain amount of time.

They’d only been in their apartment for a few hours, but Jillian had already fallen in love with it. It was a two bedroom, two bath on the tenth floor, with a decent sized living room and a cozy kitchen. The pinnacle however, was the terrace with it’s sliding glass doors overlooking the city. She’d done her research before they’d even been offered the apartment, when her and Harry were still stressing over scholarships and acceptance letters, she knew how fortunate they were, despite the catch of Harry’s unwanted and unpaid internship in some snotty office a few blocks away.

That was why she didn’t mind beginning the mess of unpacking while Harry took a break, she owed it to him. He was the sole reason they had such a nice roof over their heads, so close to school.

She wasn’t sure if there was any sort of method she should follow when it came to it, but she knew Harry was exhausted from the trip so she thought she’d start with some of his boxes. She could find some of his comfy sweatpants and his favorite throw blankets and make him and the apartment feel a bit cozier.

The first box she cracked open was a few of his journals and a Green Bay Packers fleece throw she’d gotten him for Christmas one year. She was careful with the journals, left them on his desk that they’d already moved into his room, but careless with the throw, expecting that to be all that was left.

Instead, a flurry of ripped out journal pages and folded notebook paper scattered to the floor.

“Shit,” she cursed under her breath, eyes growing wide because there was no way Harry wouldn’t notice they’d been messed with, thinking that that was the biggest problem she had on her hands.

But as she knelt to the floor, desperately trying to pick them up in the correct order as to not upset Harry, something caught her eye. She knew it was wrong, snooping even (especially with how private Harry was with his writing anyway), but she couldn’t help it. Her fingers ran along the torn edges, her eyes skimmed along the loopy handwriting. She felt like someone had knocked the wind out of her.

They weren’t anything like Harry’s usual writings, short stories and plots and bits and pieces of unfinished novels, they were rants. They were about love. They were about someone. Someone he’d never told her about, or even hinted at. Sure, Harry had had high school flings and one night stands but nothing serious. He’d never told her he’d been in Love.

There was something running through her veins hot and steady. She was his best friend. He wasn’t supposed to keep things from her, especially not things like that. It stung.

She didn’t understand why he wouldn’t tell her. There wasn’t anything they didn’t tell each other. Whether it was monumental and terrifying or not. Part of her wanted to believe there was a reason, but a larger part couldn’t think of one. He was the first one she’d come out to when she realized she definitely wasn’t straight, the first one she’d told about losing her virginity, the one she’d cried to the first time she’d been stood up.

It scared her, that she couldn’t think of a reason he would keep something like that from her. It kept her from lashing out or confronting him right away. Instead, she put the stack of loose papers on top of his desk too (in hopes he’d bring it up first) and didn’t mention any of it.

Not until that night.

Jillian realized nights in Manhattan were a hell of a lot different than in the suburbs. They were brighter and louder and yet lonelier still.

Laying on her mattress in the corner of her new, bare room, alone, was so much different than in the room she’d spent eighteen years of her life alone in. It was a different sort of alone. It was a different sort of light leaking through the cheap blinds that kept her awake. It was different, unfamiliar sounds that jolted her awake every time she started to drift off.

She gave up at quarter to two.

She made her way out of her room and into the small sort of hallway connecting her and Harry’s rooms rooms in just an old, oversized Orlando Magic tee shirt (one she thought was probably once Harry's) and a pair of gray cotton boyshorts, avoiding the boxes still cluttering the entire apartment. She was quickly learning with their lack of central air conditioning, that even city heat was different than Florida heat.

She didn’t knock, she never had back home, just cracked the door open enough to slip in and shut it behind her, not yet used to all the new creaks she was supposed to be careful of.

“Jilly?”

Harry’s voice made her jump, her hand drop from the door knob and her feet spin her around. He was sprawled out on his own mattress in the middle of the room in just a pair of boxers, the covers tangled around him like he’d been twisting and turning too.

“S-sorry,” she mumbled, not stopping herself from moving closer to him, “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Me either,” he hadn’t shut his blinds and she could see he was awake, a little smile on his lips, from the city lights pouring in, “C’mon then.”

Gratefully she slid into the other side where he was holding an arm out for her to tuck herself into. They were quiet for a second, Jillian settling herself against his chest and him shuffling against his pillow.

An ambulance siren sounding in the distance broke the silence, making her jump and him mumble into her hair, “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

She let out a tiny giggle into his skin, the nervous energy previously flowing through her veins slowing just a bit. That was one of Jillian’s favorite things about Harry, they were always on the same page. Even when she crept into his bed at nearly two in the morning without saying hardly anything, he could spout off a movie quote word for word and relax her just a little in seconds like he had all their lives.

“Hey, Harry?” she mumbled after a few minutes of him staring at the ceiling and her staring at him.

“Hm?” Harry hummed, fingers brushing up and down her bare arm.

“You’d tell me if you were seeing someone, right?” it was hard to find the right words, hard to be careful and collected when she was used to being honest and brash. He was someone she’d never needed to filter or water herself down for.

He spluttered out a cough, “W-what?”

“Like, I dunno,” she hummed back, trying desperately to sound nonchalant as the uncomfortable feeling in her stomach rose again, “We’re best friends. You’d tell me, right? No matter who they were? No matter what?”

She heard him swallow harshly, lick his lips and choose his words just as carefully, “Y-yeah, Jilly, course. No matter what. I-I’m not, though.”

“Okay,” she hummed, because that honesty was enough to settle her for the night, despite how nervous he sounded, “Goodnight, Harry. Love you.”

And then she leaned up and kissed his cheek before rolling over onto her side, her back facing Harry.

*

August faded into September and Jillian was blooming. Harry thought maybe she had been made for Manhattan.

She had made friends everywhere, at every opportunity. There was Kelsie who lived on the floor above them with her wild curls, loud music, and quick wit. Niall lived on Harry’s and Jillian’s floor, and he was practically Kelsie in typical boy form, with a massive yellow labrador (that no one was sure how he'd snuck past his landlord) and a penchant for cheese pizza by the box. Neither of them seemed to like each other much, despite their obnoxious similarities. Her favorite though was Zayn, from work.

Work was a little toy shop in walking distance from her and Harry’s apartment. It had been owned by the same family for decades and with vintage toys and modern gadgets alike it was a rare little find. Zayn lived above it. She’d met him there, when she’d stumbled in out of curiosity one afternoon. They’d bonded over Disney movies and he’d encouraged her to apply for a job there, seeing as one of their associates had given their two week notice that morning.

Zayn was different, quiet and closed off to the point of seeming standoffish until you got to know him. But when you did, you realized what a gem he was. Fiercely loyal and witty and intelligent and could throw a kickass party (or so she’d been told). Which was exactly why she was dragging Harry out of their apartment.

It wasn’t that Harry wasn’t adjusting well, he just didn’t have the time (or so he told himself and Jillian) to find his place yet. Between classes starting and learning the ropes of his (unpaid) internship and trying to find an actual paying job he hardly had time to think let alone make friends of his own.

Harry thought that was the real reason Jillian was dragging him out, whether she’d admit to it or not.

She was practically bouncing on her way to Zayn’s apartment, arm linked with Harry’s and black kitten heels click-clacking on the sidewalk as she went on about something her professor had said that morning. (x)

She was excited. Something electric was flowing through her veins, something that made her feel like it was going to be a good night. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

“You’re gonna love him,” she squeezed his arm with hers, flitting between topics like a nervous bird from tree to tree.

“Yeah?” he hummed, knowing she meant Zayn as they quickened their pace enough to cross the street before the light changed again.

“Yeah,” he looked over at her, she was nodding to herself, “Gonna be a good night.”

He wasn’t sure but the smile that lit up her face was enough to convince him it could be okay. He wasn’t all that good with parties where he didn’t know anyone.

Jillian didn’t really know anyone either, save for Zayn and Niall and maybe Kelsie, if she actually showed. Except she wasn’t nervous or anxious or anything she normally would’ve been. She liked Zayn, she liked the stories he told about his friends and his music taste so she believed him when he told her she’d fit right in.

Zayn's place above the toy store was a hidden gem too. It was a big, open, studio apartment with dark hardwood flooring and steel gray walls he’d painted himself. It was something Jillian aspired to have. Somewhere she called home that she blended into so easily. That was what she wanted for her and Harry.

They’d been one of the first ones to show, Zayn pulling Jillian in with a big grin before introducing himself to Harry and showing them around, offering drinks immediately.

The first shot loosened her up. Made it easier to smile and repeat her name over and over again as all sorts of people made their way through Zayn’s door.

The second shot freed her. Kept her from hanging around in the corner like she used to at high school parties and let her drift away from Harry and into groups of new, interesting people.

She lost track of him after the third shot.

She swore he’d just been there, laughing at a story she’d been telling a boy with big, enthusiastic brown eyes. He was always there. But when she turned for his input, he was gone. It pissed her off a little (it pissed her off even more that somewhere in the back of her head she could hear Harry telling her it was just because she was always looking for a fight when she was tipsy). So she didn’t look for him.

She’d brought him to the party and he’d ditched her and she was going to have a fine time without him.

So she did. A few drinks later she found herself singing and dancing and laughing with the prettiest girl her drunken head had ever seen. She had long, dark auburn hair and freckles littered her face. She was wearing a pretty, printed dress and Jillian thought maybe she’d heard her say something about being an aspiring novelist. She wasn’t at all Jillian’s type and she thought maybe that was exactly what she needed.

She didn’t know when it’d gone from shots and dancing to tangled up in Zayn’s big, leather arm chair and kissing hungrily, but it had. This girl was wonderful, warm and soft and smelled like strawberries. She tasted even better. She reminded Jillian how fantastic it was to have someone to kiss, someone to let trail their fingers under the hem of her slip dress, someone to feel less alone with.

But as quickly as it had seemed to have begun, it was ending.

There was an incessant tugging at her bare shoulder and there wasn’t a pair of soft lips at her jaw anymore.

She whipped her head around, head feeling full and hazy and a scowl on her smudged lips, to find Harry. Her scowl grew.

“What?” she was seething, a combination of Harry’s disappearance and the moment being ruined and the drinks she’d lost count of.

“We’re leaving,” his voice was flat and only deepened the lines between her eyebrows.

“See you later,” she hissed, she’d already planned on going back to wherever the auburn haired girl lived. Her and Harry hadn’t discussed those sorts of arrangements and no matter how many drinks she’d had or how annoyed she was, she wasn’t going to bring her home and make him uncomfortable.

“We,” he reiterated plainly, “As in you and I. C’mon.”

“I’m busy, Harry,” he knew that. It was obvious. He was being a dick.

There was a titter of airy laughter next to her, a voice sweet as honey, “Sorry, I didn’t realize. You should go with him.”

Jillian felt her eyes widen in time with Harry’s, hers in horror and his seemingly in an attempt to suppress a laugh, “N-no! I-it’s not-”

A delicate hand slid up her side, patting her almost friendlily on the skin showing on her back, “‘S alright,” she then directed her voice to Harry, “I really am sorry. No hard feelings, right?”

Jillian wasn’t sure who she wanted to escape from more. All she knew was that she could feel her cheeks burning and her legs wobbling as she tried to stand up. She didn’t want to be touched by the nice tasting girl anymore.

“Course not,” Harry was smiling at her, still holding back a stupid laugh, “See you ‘round.”

Jillian didn’t catch what she’d said back, she was already shoving past Harry and trying to erase it all. From the girl’s perfume to the look in Harry’s eyes when she’d thought they were something.

“Jilly, Jilly,” Harry was following a few steps behind, as usual, “Wait.”

His hand landed on her bare forearm, goosebumps rising to her skin despite the hot flash of anger she felt inside as she yanked away, “Fuck off, Harry.”

“I know you’re pissed at me,” he mumbled but didn’t let go, “But you’re pretty fucking drunk. Wait, yeah? We’ve gotta wait for Niall.”

“I don’t care, Harry,” she spun around as best she could on sore feet still in heels, “You’re being a fucking dick. Fuck Niall.”

“Yeah, would ya?” Niall’s thick Irish accent was in in her ear all of a sudden, an arm thrown around her as the smell of cheap beer flooded her personal space, “Harry cockblocked me too.”

“He’s good at it,” she muttered under her breath, the fight leaving her just a bit but the hurt still hanging around in her chest.

“You’re both shitfaced, c’mon,” Harry managed to throw one long, flannel clad arm around both of them as he led them to the front door.

Jillian began to realize just exactly how much she’d had to drink that night. Zayn’s apartment was nearly empty. The music was hardly audible anymore and there were empty cups and bottles and passed out bodies everywhere. Her stomach was moving hungrily and she wondered how late, or maybe how early, it was.

“Oh shit,” Jillian mumbled, trying to keep up on sore feet and jelly legs and find what part of her head wasn’t clouded with alcohol, “Where’s Kelsie?”

Harry snorted, opening the door quietly and ushering them through, “She left hours ago, hardly even drank. Got a cab with some bloke, actually.”

Jillian wondered how Harry was so sober and Niall snorted, “Thank fuck.”

They made their way out and Jillian learned she wasn’t nearly as afraid of creaky elevators when she was drunk compared to when she was sober. She also learned Niall was even more talkative (and less sensible) with a few beers but she didn’t really mind when she was drunk too.

The air outside washed over them, sending a chill down Jillian’s spine. She wasn’t used to early September nights being chilly. It sort of made her miss Florida, though that could have been all of the shots earlier in the night.

Deep down, her sober self knew she was romanticising things. She was probably just upset that she was either going to have to get herself off and sleep alone or not get off at all and fall asleep in Harry’s bed.

But everything was different, that made her feel funny too, like her heart was beating faster and her breaths were harder to catch. The air was crisp and didn’t smell like the sea or the suburbs. It was cool, the hot stickiness of the day had vanished. She’d been expecting to revel in it, the newness of everything, the freedom. Instead it made her feel sort of out of it. Like she wasn’t in her own body. Like it wasn’t her heels click-clacking down the cement or her shoulder that Harry’s hand had rested on, above where her dress strap had slid down her arm.

She realized then, two blocks closer to their building, that that hand of Harry’s had been brushing up and down her skin trying to get her attention.

“Hm?” she hummed, leaning a bit more of her weight into where he was in between her and Niall.

“Niall,” he mumbled into her ear, loud enough for just her to hear and pull her out of her head without making her look like she hadn’t been paying attention.

“Said I know a great girl for you,” his words were a little more slurred than usual and Jillian held back an eyeroll.

“Thank you, Niall, but no thank you,” she tried to sound polite, straight people were even more tiring when she wasn’t sober, “‘M not actively looking for anything like that.”

“Oh shit,” he took in a breath as he stumbled along, some of his weight against Harry too, “I-is that not like? Was that like a drunken thing? Should I not bring it up-”

“Niall,” her head was starting to throb, “No. Shut up. Me liking girls isn’t a drunken thing. I like whoever I like. I’m just. Not looking for anything serious right now, you know?”

She’d been telling herself that for months. She wasn’t looking for anything serious again. She was still piecing herself back together and finding her footing. Maybe she was taking longer than most but she knew she needed to be better than she had been the last time. She needed to be sure of who she was on her own. She needed to love whoever that was inside before someone else again.

“Aw shit,” he sighed, “Didn’t realize I had competition with the both of you.”

Jillian had known from the moment she met Niall that he wasn’t the relationship type. Truthfully, she admired it. She wasn’t all that good at no attachment situations. She never had been.

“Don’t worry about it, Niall,” she sighed back, wanting to shut her eyes but kept her legs moving, “I’m not really a competitive person.”

She didn’t bother elaborating any more on her sexuality, unsure if Niall would even remember the conversation in the morning. Her skin itched with something under it, something that wanted to clarify and explain but the alcohol subdued it and she was grateful. Not caring what people thought her sexuality was or what their opinions on it were was a part of her whole mission of loving herself wholly and unabashedly.

“Except at Jenga,” Harry butted in with a hum and squeezed her waist, knowing what she was thinking easily, “Jilly loves a good, competitive game of Jenga.”

Jillian let herself throw her head back and laugh, her eyes landing on the stars beyond the city lights. He knew her. He loved her. Two things she wanted so desperately for herself.

*

“I want you to know I’m still mad at you,” Jillian hummed as soon as Niall’s door shut and her and Harry were making their way down the hall to their own apartment, “And I hate you very much right now but I’m also very tired and I would like to not fight...”

“Why’re you mad at me?” Harry scoffed and tried to adjust her weight on him, causing her face to rest against his chest. He smelled different. Like cigarettes and staleness.

“‘Cause you’re a dick,” she mumbled when they’d reached the door, “I don’t remember if I brought my key.”

“I did,” he dug around in his jean pocket with a sigh, “‘S this about that bird?”

Jillian scoffed, she hated how flippant he sounded, “I was having a great time, was gonna have an even better night, until you ruined it.”

“You weren’t in the right state of mind to go to bed with someone, Jilly,” he jammed his key in the lock, “You still aren’t.”

“I’m an adult, Harry,” she stomped her foot, impatient and frustrated, “And adults do adult things like have their own apartments and go to bed with people they don’t know. They don’t need parents.”

“I’m not trying to be your parent, Jilly,” he unlocked the door, pulled his key out, and shoved the door open with one hand. She could practically hear the eyeroll in his voice.

“I hate when you do that,” she ripped away from him and tossed her dark hair over her shoulder because it smelled intoxicatingly like him as she stumbled through the doorway.

“Do what?” he wasn’t sure she’d even heard him as he shut the door, she was already stumbling through the hallway trying to slip her heels off and keep her balance.

“‘This, Jilly’ and ‘that, Jilly’ like ‘m a child,” she huffed before her left ankle twisted and gave out underneath her and Harry quickly tucked her back into his side.

“Sorry,” he let out a sigh, “C’mon, yeah?”

“Hate when you do that too,” she found her footing and let him begin to lead to her room, dodging the stacks of boxes that had still been left untouched, “‘Cause you don’t wanna fight.”

“You know I hate fighting with you,” he gently kicked her unlatched door open, “Especially when you’re drunk.”

“Not even that drunk,” she tugged away from him again.

She hated when he was more sober than her. When they weren’t on the same level or the same page. When he didn’t take her seriously.

“You’re falling all over the place,” he mumbled as she stumbled through her room, still mostly bare and unlived in, "Lemme help, yeah? Before you hurt yourself."

She was at the edge of her mattress, trying to keep her balance and slip off her dress, her arms twisted around to her back and her hair falling in her face. She looked older, he thought. In ways he hadn’t noticed, in the bags under her eyes that had always been there and the darkness of her hair against the skin that seemed paler.

“Can get it myself,” she was more stubborn when drunk he’d learned.

“No you can’t,” he stepped closer, carefully, afraid of making her snap, and gently caught her waist with one hand while the other brushed hers away from the zipper down her back, “‘S okay. Won’t tell anyone.”

“Hate when you do that too,” she swayed a bit as he unzipped it slowly, knowing it was her favorite dress despite that night being the first time she’d worn it. It was the first dress she’d bought in New York.

“I know,” he let go of her, “Do you need me to stay?”

Jillian let out a sigh, the fight draining out of her and drowsiness replacing it as she let the dress slip off her shoulders and fall to a heap on the floor, “It’d be nice.”

“I don’t mind,” he mumbled behind her and took a seat on the edge of her mattress at the bottom, staring at his boots.

“Still upset with you,” she clumsily scooped up the dress and tossed it onto the back of her desk chair, the only thing not littered with boxes, “I wore this cute bra and underwear for nothing ‘cause of you.”

“Right, Jilly,” his eyes stayed trained on the floor as she slid into bed, “Sorry, I didn’t want my best mate to be taken advantage of.”

“Whatever, let’s drop it,” she sighed, tone shifting from annoyed to sleepy, “C’mere then.”

He glanced over at her, covers hardly pulled up to her chest revealing the long strand of faux pearls still draped around her neck, “You’re gonna choke yourself in your sleep.”

Jillian watched him slide up the edge of the bed to sit next to her and lean in to carefully unwind the pearls from her neck. She let him. She didn’t speak until he was done, the strand sitting in his lap.

“You’re my favorite person in the whole world,” she yawned, arms outstretched for him.

He leaned in naturally, easily, and let her smear her off violet shade of lipstick even more with a kiss to his cheek, “You’re mine.”

When he pulled away to study her, a worriedness still painted across his features, she only grinned, “Wanna know a secret?”

“Hm?” Harry’s hands twisted the pearls through his fingers but his eyes stayed on her.

“Gonna finally unpack my paints tomorrow,” she whispered like it was her best secret, her most treasured. He supposed maybe it was, he'd never known her to go more than a day without painting something, and they'd been in New York for weeks.

A relief flooded through him, making him feel lighter than he had since they’d left Florida.