"If only in my dreams" - Bing Crosby

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You know the feeling you get before sending a really risky text? The hammering of your heart, the anxiety filling your mind as you read and re-read the message to make sure it's exactly right? That's how I feel right now, but instead of a text, it's my application for the London Studios internship. And instead of re-reading the message, I'm re-reviewing my portfolio for the umpteenth time.

I don't know how long I've been standing at the mailbox with the large, stiff envelope gripped in my hand. I start to mentally nag at myself to get it over with already. I didn't slave over my portfolio with both Harry and Montrose's help for nothing. Not to mention it's snowing, I'm only in a thin thermal and sweats, and I'm starting lose the feeling in my fingers.

Deeply exhaling, I let it go, listening to it land at the bottom of the metal box with a distinct thunk, then turn around and briskly return to the apartment building. You know the torturous time period between sending a risky text and getting a reply? This feeling is worse. But there's nothing I can do except wait and hope for the best.

Finals start on Monday and, despite my countless hours of studying, I'm still jittery just thinking about them.

"I'm sure you'll do splendid, darling," Effy says over breakfast.

"I hope so," I sigh. The last thing I want is for my parents to think I flew over three thousand miles and attend an expensive art school just to flunk out.

"You've got to get your mind off of it. Oh, I know! Come Christmas shopping with me," she cheerfully proposes.

There's a couple reasons I don't like shopping. For one thing, I always leave with something I don't need, like a pair of sunglasses I'll never wear but were on sale. The lines are long, the cashiers are cranky as hell, and there's always those groups of people in the mall who rudely cut in front of you while walking and take on the speed of a turtle.

But I agree to go shopping with Effy anyway, in the hopes that it will calm my nerves and get my mind off school. Needless to say, the mall is packed with Christmas shoppers. I won't even get started on the condition of the lines and cashiers.

We enter a trendy boutique displaying mannequins in odd poses. Effy makes her way straight to the clothing rack and shuffles through them with lightening speed.

I watch her in awe. "How do you even know what you're looking at?"

"Don't question the pro, Jules," she answers, never breaking eye contact from the rack.

I decide to browse around the store for something to give to my mom, but it's clear that the clothes are meant for women decades younger. At least this store isn't as suffocatingly crowded as the others we've been to. A choking glimpse at the number on one of the dangling price tags tells me why. The only discernible quality that makes this store similar to the others we've visited are the classic holiday songs playing quietly from the speakers.

"I'll be hooome for Christmas," Bing Crosby croons overhead. "Youuuu can count on me."

I smile at the thought of going home over break. My extended family comes over and we have really cliche traditions and play tacky games around the fireplace but it's one of the best times of the year. I try not to think about the nervousness that will ensue when I tell my parents the internship news, or their reactions if I end up getting in.

I'm supposed to find out within the next couple of weeks. London Studios is going to email the three candidates they've chosen and invite them for an interview but Montrose told me if I get an interview, it means I'm in.

"How's this look?" Effy says, holding up a poofy party dress against her body. It's the same shade of turquoise that used to be in the tips of her hair. She's a fan of changing her hair color. This week, she's a coffee-bean brunette.

"I thought you were Christmas shopping," I remind her.

"I am," she says, protectively wrapping the dress around herself. "I need something to wear to the Christmas party at my aunt's house."

"Are you gonna go home, too?" I ask.

"I don't want to but I will," she sighs. "I haven't seen Lulsy and Lany in ages."

I've only ever seen her sisters in pictures on her phone. They're two twins that are so identical, they even have matching cheek moles.

"How old are they now?" I ask.

"Ten," she replies. "Which means they're starting to care for how they look. I've got to help them out with that since my dad doesn't care about anyone but his wife and that dreadful woman doesn't care about anyone but herself."

I feel sorry for Effy, although she talks about her dysfunctional life back home as if it's nothing more than a pestering bug bite. I wish there was something I could do. I want to invite her to Connecticut but it seems she's already set on her Christmas plans.

Her stories make me grateful for my family, that even though Gellan isn't alive anymore, my parents are still happily married. It's a morbid thought, but I wonder who has it worse, me with my dead brother, or Effy with her divorced parents and gold-digging stepmom.

"So, what are you getting Harry?" Effy asks as we wander through a tween girls' store.

"I don't know," I reply.

"You are getting him a gift, aren't you?" she asks, locking me into her hazel stare.

"Yeah, I just don't know what I should get him."

"Well, it depends. Are you two still 'friends' or are you officially an item now?"

Glancing away, I bite down hard on the grin tugging at my lips. I pretend to be interested in some jeans folded on a shelf while I feel her eyes bore into me.

"You don't fool anyone, dear," Effy says. I can hear the smirk strong in her tone. "And thank heavens, finally. I've been watching and waiting for ages."

"You've been waiting?"

"Yeah."

"That's not normal, Effy."

"I don't care," she shrugs. "You two are adorable together."

Speaking of the devil, Harry appears before us. Again, not in person, but standing awkwardly on a t-shirt with the words One Direction in red, splattered paint font. He's alongside his bandmates who are posing in equally awkward stances.

"What do you think?" Effy asks, picking it up and giggling.

"I think they need to hire new merchandise designers."

"Thank you, miss graphic arts major. But what do you think of this for my sisters?"

"I don't know, do they like One Direction? What do ten-year-olds even like?"

"I'm not sure, really," Effy says. "I think I've heard them mention One Direction before but they're always chatting away about some boy band or Bieber or another."

She places the shirt back on the rack. "Anyway, I know Harry's going to get you something. Something really sweet, too."

"How do you know? Has he told you?" I ask a bit too hurriedly.

"No, I just know. The boy is head over heels for you, Jules. I see it in his eyes every time he comes round to the flat and you guys aren't locked up inside your room doing god-knows-what."

"He helps me study," I reply.

"Right, if that's what you strange Americans call it," she says, waving me off.

I put off on protesting that sentiment any further and ask, as casually as I can manage, "So, um, what do you mean you see it in his eyes? See what?"

"Surely you know what I mean," she says, examining a blue and purple hoodie with a heart pattern. She grabs another one in a different color and drapes them both over her arm.

"Surely I don't," I tell her.

"Just the way he looks at you---and the fact is, he is always looking at you. You don't notice it, but he does, even when you're not doing or saying anything. I can tell he's trying not to but that lad cannot help himself."

My mind races, suddenly analyzing my memories of every move I've made in front of Harry. Thoughts of Oh, no, what if he saw this? and Shit, what if he noticed that? fire off in my head like cannons on a short fuse.

"I notice it in you, too," Effy says, interrupting my musings.

"Me? How?"

"I always catch you smiling like an idiot at your phone, which you had never spent that much time on before because you loathe texting."

There's no use in denying or defending against that; she's absolutely right. I watch in silence as she stacks several more sweaters and skirts on top of her arm.

"And I haven't heard a single complaint about work since you've started seeing Harry," she notes. "Either your boss has turned into an angel or Harry's making you too happy to care."

We both laugh, knowing too well which scenario is more likely. But all jokes aside, Effy is the first one to call this to my attention, the positive influence Harry has been on my life. Naturally his morning visits with my favorite tea (green, with a squeeze of lemon and two spoonfuls of honey) and spontaneous texts put me in a better mood but it's far beyond surface things like that. It's deeper toward the core, something you can't fully understand until you've had someone like Harry in your world, whose every action, intentional or not, makes you feel like you're his world.

"What are you getting Ansel?" I ask as Effy dumps the heap of girls' clothing from her arm onto the counter at the cash register.

"A pair of trousers and a wall clock," she replies while thumbing through her wallet.

I give her a quizzical look. "You got your boyfriend trousers and a wall clock for Christmas?"

"Yeah," she answers. "He told me he needed new trousers and a wall clock. What does Harry need?"

I ponder it for a moment but draw a blank. "It doesn't seem like he needs anything."

"Then what does he want?"

"I'm not sure. He's got everything already."

"Everybody likes to say that but even the richest man in the world wants something, even if it's not something big," says Effy.

Well, there's one thing I'm certain he wants.

Me.

My heart.

All of my attention and affection.

The truth is, he already has it. I just don't know how to let him know. Even more so, I don't know if I should let him know.

Notes