Anonymous asked: What happened the first time you slept with Harry?

“What’re you doing?” Harry’s husky voice asked me.

I smiled into the phone, “Hanging out.”

I could hear his smirk. “Come over,” he suggested.

I sighed, “Harry, I can’t.”

“Come on, Bryce,” he said, “You know you want to.”

I bit my lip, “Well, of course I want to, but…”

“It’s gonna be a good one,” he said seductively, “I can feel it.”

I smiled, embarrassed even though nobody could hear our conversation, “It’s always good… but still,” I shook my head a little.

“Well, if you can’t come over,” he hesitated, “Do you want me to, you know, talk you through it?” The eyebrow wiggle was implied.

I contemplated, “Tempting, but I think I’ll watch Nip/Tuck here.”

I’ll bet you thought we were talking about sex. No, it’s not like that between me and Harry.

I played with a string on my blanket, “I went back to that sale today,” I told him, making idle conversation.

“Oh yeah?” he asked, interested, “Did you get that awful black flowy thing?”

“No, you were right: it totally did make me look pregnant,” I loved Harry because he gave me his honest opinion on my appearance, but I also hated Harry because he gave me his honest opinion on my appearance.

“Did you get anything?” he wondered.

“I got a great camisole,” I grinned.

“Yeah?” I could hear another smirk in his words, “Sexy?”

From behind me, I could hear Connor’s footsteps, “I’m going to bed,” he said passively as he shuffled to his bedroom.

I smiled into the phone, hearing the door to Connor's room close. I held my mouth to the receiver so only Harry would hear me speak, “Ask me again in the morning.”

A brief moment of panic washed over me, but I took a deep breath to calm myself—Harry wasn’t a huge fan of Connor’s, but I was my own person, I could see who I wanted. “Was that Connor?” Harry asked. I wish we had been Skyping so I could see his expression, because I couldn’t tell from his voice what he was feeling.

“Yeah,” I said, smiling and figuring his reaction was good because I wasn’t being lectured, “Jealous?”

He scoffed, “Oh, sweetie, I don’t need you,” he said haughtily, “I’ve got Portia de Rossi.”

I laughed, “Sorry, babe, but she doesn’t bat for your team.”

He scoffed, “Sure she does; she just hasn’t seen me pitch.”

“Okay,” I said sarcastically. “Say ‘goodnight, Brycey.’”

He sounded so elated, “Goodnight, Brycey.”
---
I stormed into Harry’s apartment building, furious with my body for not releasing enough endorphins whilst on my run to calm me down. I took the stairs two at a time up to the fourth floor, giving it a chance to redeem itself, but no. I was about as calm as a shark.

The spare key to Harry and Louis’s apartment was hidden beneath a potted palm in the hallway—completely ridiculous considering that was the third place an intruder would look, only behind checking underneath the welcome mat and on top of the door’s frame. I unlocked the door and stuffed it into the pocket of my jogging pants, wanting the least amount of people possible to deal with.

Harry was in the middle of the living room when I barged in, sitting with his knees on a suitcase and trying forcefully to zip it closed. He tried to look over at who had just come inside, but his hair kept falling in his eyes, “Bryce?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, and I meant it. I power walked all the way over to his kitchen, yanking cabinets open with such force I was surprised they stayed on their hinges. I knew he and Louis kept the hard stuff—alcohol, you pervs—out of the eyes of their company.

“Did you get into a fight with Connor?” he guessed, quite accurately, might I add.

I finally found an unopened bottle of Beaujolais—not the best stuff in the world, but hey, it would do in a pinch. I uncorked it with my hands, “Yeah, but I don’t want to talk about it—I-I can’t even think straight.” I took a long swig straight from the bottle.

“It’s four o’clock,” he said in a disapproving tone. “Isn’t it a little early to drink? The sun’s still up.”

I ignored him, “Where’s Louis?”

Louis and I didn’t really get along, but that was okay because neither did Eleanor and I. “He’s spending the night at Eleanor’s—you know I’m leaving for tour tomorrow, I don’t have all night to get whatever happened out of you.” He stood up, having zipped the suitcase and leaving it with a matching set by the door.

He took the wine from me and took a swig himself before retrieving the proper glasses. “You know what he said to me?” I asked bitterly, bringing the conversation back to my fuckhead of a boyfriend, “I was this close to landing that editing job with British Vogue, but my portfolio never arrived. They gave it to McKayla Buck instead; it was humiliating.”

Harry’s eyebrows furrowed, “That’s really disappointing, I’m sorry.”

“Thank you!” I said, throwing my hands in the air and almost knocking the wine out of Harry’s hand. “That’s all I wanted to hear, but Connor’s like, ‘Well, maybe you shouldn’t have put it off till the last minute.’”

“Ouch,” Harry said. I knew he was just trying to make me feel better and could really care less who edited a fashion magazine, but I appreciated him trying.

“Yeah,” I spat. “And I lost it! I’m like, ‘Why can’t you just let me have my feelings?’ And then you know what he said? He goes, ‘Stop being so hysterical. You’re acting just like your mother.’”

Harry, who was in the midst of pouring me a big glass of wine, froze, “He did not.”

“Yeah,” I said again, still in disbelief. “What kind of person says that?”

He was mumbling, but I could have sworn I heard, “The kind of person you should have dumped a year ago.”

“What?” I asked, craning my neck towards him.

“Nothing. Look, you’re welcome to stay the night, but I’m leaving early tomorrow,” he said. He clinked our glasses together and raised his cup to me, “You know what management’s just told me? That, as long as I’m signed, I’m not allowed a girlfriend—isn’t that stupid?”

Harry liked female company about as much as I hated my mother—which was really saying something. “Sorry,” I said. “I mean, I guess I get it, though: you’re like The Face. But you’re still allowed hookups, aren’t you?”

He shrugged, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips, “I guess. But I’d still like a girlfriend, you know? Someone to go out to dinner with and wake up next to and not have to worry about whether or not I remember her name in the morning. Hey, how would you feel about it? Maybe I can take you out, wine and dine you, and then I’ll know who you are tomorrow and I won’t feel bad about it. I mean, I guess you’re fit: I can work with it.”

“You’re such a poet,” I mocked, “I don’t know why you don’t already have a girlfriend; you have such a way with words.” I downed the rest of my Beaujolais and poured myself another glass.

He watched me, still casually sipping his drink. He was upset, but I was more of a lush when it came down to it. “Do you want anything to eat? I can make you something.”

I had consumed the wine fast enough that I could already feel the buzz. But I wasn’t in the mood for a buzz—I still felt like shit and that was unacceptable. I was looking to blackout. “I’m okay,” I said.

“Bryce,” was all he said, seeing right through my lie. He knew that I had a firm belief that there was never a bad time to eat.

“Something with frosting,” I said, giving in. He was offering—it would be rude of me as his guest to decline.

He moved past me and to the fridge. I took a seat at the counter and peered inside, looking to see if there was any more alcohol or anything dense and chocolaty. He pulled out a half-eaten sheet cake. “This has been in here a few days, but it should be fine,” he said, placing it on the counter. He opened up the drawers and pulled out two forks.

“You had an event that involved cake and you didn’t invite me?” I asked with fake anger. “Harry, how could you?”

He smiled and stuck his finger into the cake, smearing the frosting on my nose before licking the remains off. He raised his eyebrows once in a flirtatious manner, “I was thinking of you the whole time.”

“Tell that to my broken heart,” I shot back. I batted my eyes a few times, blinking away nonexistent tears.

“Oh, Brycey,” he cooed, “C’mere.” We both leaned across the counter. He dragged his frosting-covered thumb across my lips; when they parted, he stuck his thumb inside of my mouth, allowing me to lick the sweet icing away.

He moved his hand to my hair, pulling my mouth to his. I could taste the frosting and Beaujolais on his tongue. His fingers kneaded my skull and he felt so good against me, even with the counter in the way. I wanted him—I wanted him to take off my shirt and let it crumple to the floor, for him to touch me everywhere the cotton had. I wanted to feel his body tight against mine, warm skin, callused hands, moist lips.

When we parted his shirt was covered in the cake’s frosting. He walked around the counter and simultaneously lifted it over his head, throwing the article of clothing aside before capturing my lips again. His hands firmly held my jaw, but I hardly felt it over the dancing of our tongues. He managed to stand me up and clumsily drag me over to the couch, where I fell on top of him without breaking our kisses.

“I’m drunk,” I whispered against his mouth.

“Me too,” he whispered back. He smiled and kissed me again.
---
I woke up the next morning at the crack of dawn in Harry’s bed. He wasn’t there, but judging by the smells wafting through the apartment, he was cooking breakfast. I knew he had to be leaving soon, so I redressed in whatever clothes I could find and wandered to the kitchen.

“Good morning,” he said brightly when he saw me.

“Hi,” I said, “Look, Harry, about last night, I—”

He smiled, “Don’t worry,” he said. “We were drunk, it happens. Your friendship is enough for me.”

Sighing with relief, I sat down at the counter; it smelled of sugar. “Good… because I think I’m gonna get back together with Connor.”

He smiled, but it wasn’t sincere, “Good for you—thirsty?”

“What?” I asked, because something was clearly wrong. Harry was my best friend and I knew him better than I knew myself.

“What what?” he asked with pretend humor.

“You’re lying,” I stated.

He looked confused, “No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“No, I’m not.” He walked around the counter and hugged me, “I’m happy for you, Bryce. It’s nice to know someone can take care of you whenever I’m gone.”

I raised my eyebrows, “So I have your blessing?”

“Blessing?” he asked, making a confused face, “You’re not getting married, just taking him back.” When my eyebrows went higher he broke into a smile, “You have my blessing.”

The moment I had of disbelief vanished. I smiled, feeling even more relief wash away with each breath, “Thank you. I love you,” I kissed his nose.

“I love you, too. Would you thank Connor for letting me borrow you? You were great fun last night.”

I blushed. Sleeping together would have been a big deal if it was anyone else, but Harry and I had a deeper level of friendship for something like that to get in the way. I was feeling down about my breakup, he was feeling down about his inability to date, and we gave each other what the other needed: a companion. He was my best friend, and not even our libido could ruin that.

“I better go,” I said, collecting my things which had been strewn across the living room. “Good luck with the tour—stay safe.”

“I will,” he said absentmindedly. “Wait, Bryce.”

I leaned against the open door, “Yeah?”

“Don’t go,” he said quietly.

Confused, I smiled, “I have to, Harry, I have work in a few hours.”

He took a few hesitant steps forward, “No, I mean… Don’t go back to Connor.”

My face fell, “What?”

I could see him swallow. He put his hands on the back of a recliner, “Babe, I’ve got to be honest: this guy is not enough for you.” I stared at him, and he advanced closer to me, “I mean, you’re passionate and creative and beautiful, and perfect, and this guy… you should be with somebody more—somebody else.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, but I couldn’t say anything. He continued, “He’s not funny, he doesn’t know what your favorite flower is, he’s passive aggressive—he high-fives you after sex, Bryce. I mean, you’re so afraid that you’re never going to find anyone else that you can’t even see how wrong he is for you. Think about it: if you really loved him and felt like he was the one, would you really be asking me for my blessing?” He put his hand on my shoulder and looked deep into my eyes.

I was speechless. I took a shallow breath, “Go to hell, Harry.”
---
I did what my ancestors did during times of extreme emotional trauma: I blogged. It was a terrible habit, but I liked those blogs that thought they had dirt on Harry and his band—they were so interesting to read, especially the Fan Experiences. I had found a few legitimate ones and it was scary how much information they knew—some of that stuff I didn’t even know and I was Harry’s best friend. Although, I couldn’t lie—I had sourced a few stories and knew the blog’s owner via the Internet. She was a great online friend of mine; in this day and age, Internet friends are really all you could rely on.

I decided to submit my most recent experience with Harry in order to vent, because I couldn’t tell anyone else. I sent an email to the owner and explained that I wanted to remain anonymous. But, immediately after I sent it, I became racked with guilt.

Harry was my best friend, and, even though I really didn’t do anything wrong, I still felt bad for leaving him on such a sour note, especially since I couldn’t see him for months due to tour. Harry had never even heard of the blogging website—despite the fact that he and the boys supposedly ran one—and I knew he wouldn’t see it, but in a way I was being as passive aggressive as Connor apparently was and that wasn’t okay.

The other problem was Internet trolls. I would be judged up and down, even though my identity was surely secure. Over the internet, people were worse than they were in person—it was easy to say something mean and send it without knowing what this person looked like or sounded like or did for a living. They were just a username and a series of posts.

Conflicted, I held my phone in my shaky hands, wondering where in the world Harry was and if I could call him. And, suddenly, my phone came to life.

“Hello?” I asked cautiously.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said immediately, “I was wrong about what I said before.”

And just as suddenly, my anger was back. I no longer regretted hitting Send. “You’re supposed to be my best friend, Harry.”

“I know, I know,” he said sadly. “I just… I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“No,” I spat, “You wanted me to be alone, just like you.” I almost felt bad—it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t date and I knew he could find a companion in a moment’s notice if he wanted to, but it just slipped out.

He sighed, “Brycey, I’m sorry.” I didn’t say anything for a long time, just waited for him to continue. It took him a few minutes, but he went on, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

I took a few long breaths, “Me neither.”

I could hear him smile, and I think we both knew we were over our little bump. Harry was my best friend and I knew he meant well—he wouldn’t have said all of those things if he didn’t care. “It’s no British Vogue, but I think I have a job for you,” he said.

“Oh yeah?” I questioned.

“Yeah,” he said. “Caroline Watson, our stylist, is going on maternity leave in a few days and we need someone to replace her.”

His voice hinted something, but my smile fell, “Harry, I’m a fashion journalist, not a stylist. Thanks but no thanks.”

“Come on,” he pressed, “It’ll be great—you can run a fashion blog, and, all the while, pick out clothes for me to wear. It’ll be just like real life, only you can add this to your portfolio.”

I bit my lip, “I can’t. I can’t just pack up and come on tour with you—I have a job and a life.”

But he had me right where he wanted me: a life of luxury with traveling and good looking people, all while picking out outfits for a boy band—how hard could that be? “I’ll pay for your airfare,” he sang.

I bit further into my lip, feeling the skin coming apart, “Okay,” I finally said.

“Great,” he said with a small laugh, “I’ll see you in a few days.”