Quarter-Life

"Hi, Diana."

"Hi, Harry. You know, you don't have to come over every time you walk in," the tan girl behind the gym's front desk sighs with a smile as he hands her his membership card. The scanning beep is slightly frightening beside her fluorescent teeth.

“Better to assure you I’m not some madman off the street looking to cause trouble in your gym, yeah? Besides, it’s always nice to say hi,” he tells her, and he’s aware that his politeness is coming off as flirty.

"I know who you are,” she laughs, her manicured fingers grazing his hand when she returns the card. “P.S., your annual pass needs to be renewed soon."

"Good thing I came over today, then,” he says before Diana hums, her eyelashes (which she'd told Harry last week were extensions) fluttering.

"Any plans this weekend?"

"Still working on my lesson plan," he shrugs, pushing his hand into the pocket of his white shorts. "I’m giving them an exam soon, and I always feel so bad about putting them through that, so I’m trying to keep it easy with the info dump. What about you?"

"I'm heading back to Staten Island tomorrow. I'm going for my brother's wedding— dateless."

Harry smiles softly. "Wonderful— not the dateless part, though, unless you're happy about it,” he says, to which she shakes her head.

“Ronnie, my ex, is going with his baby mama. Talk about embarrassing, showing up alone when your ex is going with the girl of his dreams,” her eyes roll behind the big lashes.

“I'm sure you'll still have a good time. October weddings are always nice," he offers, a bit hurriedly at that because he's eager to work off the building energy in his chest. 

Today has been a particularly normal day, save for the ever-present funk and the mental work out his first period gave him this morning as they got worked up over his astrological sign. 

"You want to know exactly what lies ahead for your love life, but there is no sure way to tell. Be patient as you wait for your one true love, because there are signs at the start of the week that you may cross paths soon. The romantic forecast for the weekend is cloudy, but it only takes one ray of sunshine to light up your entire world. A smile can be illuminating,” Madison read aloud, sat with her legs crisscrossed atop her usual desk and enthusiastic about teaching Harry for a change.

"Isn't it cool that we're both Aquarians, Mr. Styles? When were you born, anyway? I want to look at your birth chart,” she’d grinned.

It took about fifteen minutes before he gained control over their curiosity (he patiently tried, attributing it to a pre-Friday buzz) and managed to squeeze in the entirety of his planned lecture on Classic Liberalism nonetheless.

Angelo skipped his sixth period class due to Steph's recurrent absence; her cute, geeky six-year-old ended up with strep, and Mr. G was particularly 'stank' this afternoon. Rather than grade papers, he opted to look through an anthology of Greek Myths he'd checked out from the library. He only rambled happily about his art history class while he walked Harry out of his classroom at the end the day.

“She’s so fucking— sorry— cool, dude. She just sits on her desk and teaches us like it’s a conversation— like you, except you’re too cool to sit on your desk, you get me? She's already way better than dumb ass— sorry— Miss Martinez. Like, I didn’t know the history of art was just as awesome as the history of the whole world, or better— sorry, no offense,” he’d blabbered on, pausing to apologize every time Harry pursed his lips at Angelo’s rising voice. He was still nervous about Monique catching them talking in an informal manner (‘respect, and responsibility’), but entertained Angelo’s personal mini-lesson on the Ancient Greeks’ contribution to Western art happily.

Diana breathes out a goodbye before Harry makes his way to the back of the small gym, past the bodybuilders and the girls that look like they've jumped out of his Instagram's Explore feed, like Diana. That's the reason he turns a blind eye to her advances. It's not that he's discriminating every time he pretends not to notice the extra perfume or the fuck-me-eyes, he's just not into social media at the moment and she's a walking reminder of it.

He's entertained the thought of hooking up with her before; fit and perky Diana, with a tiny waist and freckles all over her lean stomach, and over 500,000 followers (the reason she can afford the fake eyelashes and her bougie loft by the park). The idea of her life being broadcasted over the internet just makes him uncomfortable. Then again, he can't even scroll down his feed without feeling uneasy. Everyone he knows is infuriatingly public about every little thing: engagements, big flats in the city, week-long holidays to Ibiza, ultrasound pictures and baby milestones, holistic dog food, etc.

A lot of posts are sweet, and he even finds his lips puckering in a small, happy pout at some of them, but the idea of it all has begun to turn him off— the way he wishes he could turn his phone off right now. He’s struggling to make it to the second of five miles he likes to warm up with on the treadmill as it is, and message banners keep lighting up on the screen, distracting him from his focal point and cutting into the Queen song he's listening to. 

Louis Tomlinson: she sucked me off before my shift but she literally threw up after it. I think she's fucking breaking up with me.

Danny F: HARRRYYYY COOOOMMMMEEE

Nialler: I want takeaway for dinner

Gem: Call me! On the liiiine! X

Danny F: It's just me and Layla tonight. It'll be super chill :) 

Louis Tomlinson: should I break up with her first? literally man you should've seen the look on her face. didn’t even try to swallow.

Nialler: We have takeaway money right

Danny F: I know you're serious about being a gym queen, but it's just one beer

Gem: But not any, anytime because I do have to go to bed you know. 

Nialler: ????

Louis Tomlinson: brutal and pitiful.

Nialler: Answer me or I'll take your silence as a yes and I'll give your ration to Rhi

Danny F: Coooooomeeeee

Harry turns his phone around and pushes himself harder, even though his throat burns and his lungs feel like they're full of acid.

He’s leaning against the wall behind the treadmills with his shirt, which has become too sweaty to keep on, in one hand as he sends responses with the other.

'I think you're overthinking this. Smoke a j or something on your break please' for Louis, a thumbs-up emoji for Niall, and a promise to join him next week for Danny. He finds that it’s only getting harder to recover from the grueling run he puts himself through four times a week, though he feels it was worth it because his muscles are the opposite of wound up.

Harry’s walking past the barbells and toward the chest press bench, when his phone starts to buzz repeatedly, again, interrupting his playlist with an ugly portrait of his sister. "Hi," he breathes, still reeling from the run.

"Hi there," a girl in black joggers chirps from her squatting position, probably thinking he was talking to her. His lips stretch with a hello and he gives her a courteous nod as Gemma scoffs on her end.

"Ew. What have I interrupted?"

"I’m at the gym. What's up, Blondie?"

"Oh, well, you could've called me tomorrow," she offers, her voice thick with exhaustion. It's already half eleven at night over there, six hours ahead of New York, and only two hours past the end of her long work day. She’s the beauty editor for some trendy, online magazine her friends run, and while that allows her to sleep in, he still feels sorry for the time at which she finishes.

“You called me,” he reminds her, rolling his eyes, “and I’m busy tomorrow, so now’s a good a time as ever.”

“I did, didn’t I?” He hears her hum over the clatter of the weights behind him and his controlled breathing. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I’m going to a jazz night… thing, with this girl— friend of Daisy’s. What’s so important, then?”

“A date?” Her tone’s too enthusiastic, and it reminds him of Danny’s when he pried about his feelings for Anna yesterday in the toilets. Harry’s suddenly reminded about her lingering friend request before straining out a ‘no’.

“Sounds like a date.”

“Sounds like I’m about to hang up, too,” he says through an extra-harsh groan, the handlebars of the chest press slipping through his hands. Gemma’s slow to state the purpose of her call, and it’s annoying him; the spacey trait isn’t necessarily an invention of Jo’s, rather an embellishment of the Styles family’s easygoing demeanors.

“Tom’s got time off in November, so I wanted to know if you’d be cool with us visiting you then. Only a few days, though, nothing crazy.”

“That’s…” he involuntarily groans again. Gemma’s selfish, untimely call (because she could’ve texted him with this) and the sweat on his fingers are making it difficult to work out, so he lets go of the bars again. “That’s fine. Text me your flight time when you get it, and I’ll find a sitter for Rhi.”

The prospect of her visit is exciting, albeit slightly depressing because her husband Tom’s got a major cat allergy (meaning he’ll be without Rhiannon for those few days), but he truly misses her. He’s already eager to hear her complain about his tiny, poorly-lit flat and his schoolteacher salary in the flesh.

Gemma lets out a breathy, dazed squeal, presumably at the idea of seeing her baby brother for the first time in a year, and Harry begs her to hang up and go to sleep. “And stop calling me long-distance, yeah? I don’t have big-time lawyer money like you and Tommo.”

On his walk home, after another round of small talk with Diana about workouts and weddings, he accepts Anna’s Facebook request and she quickly sends him a flurry of messages about her long shift. Just as he's replying with a recollection of his day, and walking into the flat, a text message from an unknown sender pops up.

iMessage: Where do you get your coffee from?

Who is this? He replies, curiously muttering the same aloud as he leans against the kitchen counter. The air vent above the refrigerator is hitting his forehead, bringing a welcome relief from the sweat that's stuck to his head and neck, but further reminding him that his gray t-shirt is proper drenched. He closes his eyes to bask in it because it feels good enough to put off kissing Rhiannon hello for a few moments.

"Welcome home, darlin’," he hears Niall say, followed by a croaky meow from below him, and opens his eyes to see him with a plateful of crumbs. He’s heading toward a pizza box on the stove when he pats him on the chest, a disgusted noise escaping his lips because Harry’s soaked.

“Yeah,” Harry chuckles.

"I ordered Rocky’s."

"Noted," Harry says, eyes shutting again as he feels Rhiannon curling around between his bare legs.

"You didn't go for happy hour, either, then?"

"Well, it was either this or the pints, and rent's comin’ up," Niall laments. The two share a grimace over the $750 they each have to dish out mid-month, both posted up against the counters, and Harry wonders what else he’s forgotten about when his phone vibrates in his hand.

iMessage: Layla :) This is Harry right? It's the only number I don't have a name for. 

Oh, sorry about that. 

He's forgotten to save her number as well, apparently. He follows Niall out to the lounge, shaking his head at both his own absentmindedness and the slice Niall’s offered him, promptly settling on the couch and replying as Rhiannon slinks up onto his sweaty shoulder.

Hi. 

Layla: Hi

I'm a fan of the craft shops in the area. Where do you live?

“Texting Anna, are you?” Niall asks, stretching his legs up onto the coffee table and wiggling his eyebrows at Harry from beside him. "A li'l bird's told me you've a date with her tomorrow night."

Layla: By the park.

Layla: But that’s not the point.

“No,” Harry reaches for Rhiannon’s tail to give it a kiss. He tucks it between his lips and nose before he mentions Layla. "And it's not a date— it's just two people trying to become friends, going to a jazz night.”

“Right," Niall smirks before taking a massive bite. "I wan' to tag 'long but Daisy says 's off limits," he pauses to swallow, "because of your date. Bibliofilo's supposed to be a good venue for local artists."

Sun House is good, so are Parlay and Calixto’s

"Planning your solo debut, then?" Harry asks, turning to face Niall and feeling Rhiannon play with his ponytail.

"Well, I reckon that with the shit wage you and I make, and the things I’ve got to save up for, I may as well go for it," he reasons. In addition to the sounds coming from Niall’s room as he and Daisy go at it like fucking rabbits, his songwriting sessions are also a constant buzz in the little flat. Harry prefers it to Daisy’s French.

“You think you’ll get paid right off the bat?”

“I dunno, actually. Mind asking Anna for me on your date?”

Layla: Where did you buy your iced coffee from? The one I "blessed with my presence" 

Harry doesn’t catch Niall’s teasing at first because he’s too busy wondering how Layla manages to sneak his own words into their conversations, but when he realizes what Niall’s said, he swats at his shoulder. He’s a prick, he thinks, positive that Niall’s feeling self-righteous about his pity-date plan working out.

Bene :)

Do you want? I'll pick some up for you on my way in the morning if you'd like

After he begrudgingly eats a slice of pizza (not the best post-workout meal) and the sweaty shirt’s become a right nuisance, though Rhiannon doesn’t seem to mind it from her spot, he leaves Niall to destroy the rest of the pizza in the living room and stalks off to shower.

Layla: Nooo! I’m asking because I want to buy you a cup. Think of it as a millennial olive branch

Harry replies with a ‘You don't have to’ once he’s free of the sweat coating everything but his hands and out on the balcony smoking a cigarette. The lights of the city, dusk highlighting them, serve to fill the hole in his chest. Even though the day has been smooth— no racing thoughts today aside from the mental budgeting he did in the shower, followed by an empty prayer for another month of getting by— nothing feels like it’s back to normal… whatever that fucking is anymore, he thinks.

“I’ve never taken the bus, so I don’t know if 8:00 works for you,” he slowly reads Anna’s message aloud in a murmur, drawing his knees up to his chin before approving. He’s still feeling skeptical about his decision to get to know her properly before he sleeps with her… because he’s definitely going to sleep with her. He’s tired of feeling the hole in his chest expand to his sides after every wank, like his body’s done with it.

He’s back inside when Layla responds, sitting on the floor before the coffee table and hovering over an outline for the upcoming lesson about Enlightened Despotism. There isn’t a movie playing on the telly tonight because he’s content with the distant tune of Niall’s strumming (he doesn’t lesson plan because “cinema doesn’t involve rattling off dates”) while he scribbles the appropriate textbook pages next to ‘Frederick the Great’.

Layla: I do, and I want to :)

Layla: Concede at once!

He catches himself chuckle out loud, shaking his head because he wants to know how she can do that and manage to make it funny. Every time Anna bring up his now-infamous escape from Birdy’s last week, he only feels a nasty pit in his stomach.

Fine. You did ruin my favorite shirt after all :/ He answers, shooting a look at an occupied Rhiannon. She’s sat on his briefcase, grooming her chubby little paw without regard for the importance of the papers within it. He’d lesson plan on his computer like most of his colleagues, but he’s not good when it comes to mixing technology and organization.

“You should buy me coffee, too,” he says, pointing a finger at Rhiannon. “That shirt was ninety-bloody-dollars.”

Rhiannon pauses, looking at him for a moment as if she understands what he’s saying before alternating paws, and he leans over to cover her head with a flutter of kisses as his phone vibrates from the table.

Layla: Jerk :( When do you get to school and where should I meet you?