Anonymous asked: Why did you start this blog?

I ended up not getting the job as One Direction’s stylist. I wasn’t really surprised, but Harry was very upset about it: apparently he expressed his irritation to a few choice people, but it wasn’t like he had much of a say anyway. They thought that I was too closely intertwined with the boys—I mean, you’d think that would be a good thing—and they didn’t trust my PR skills. I had studied communications while in university, but they were right to think I was sketchy. Because I was.

So, since I wouldn’t get the opportunity to have the “time of my life” with Harry and the rest of One Direction, I prepared to continue on with my life as I would whenever Harry was gone: I would resume my shitty job at the pet shop, return to my shitty apartment, and probably end up back in a shitty relationship with Connor.

It wasn’t like Harry and I saw each other all the time or spoke constantly, so my life wouldn’t really change much, but I did miss having the kid around. We usually had periods of time where we would suddenly talk nonstop, then, as quickly as that started, we would both become too busy to exchange anything more than small talk. I was used to that, though, and not worried about drifting apart from him. He had been my best friend since our days in sixth form: we had been introduced by my best friend at the time, Agnes. Harry had told me that Bryce was a boy’s name (because he really isn’t as charming as everyone makes him out to be) and I punched him in the face (because I had already been having a shitty week, and to have some prick that I didn’t even know tell me something about myself that was out of my control really set me off). Anyway, we spent the remainder of the week in detention with no one to talk to but each other and it turned out that we had a lot in common.

We didn’t lust after each other, though (except when we were drunk, apparently). A lot—and I do mean a lot—of people thought we did, but that had never been the case. He was handsome, and a gentleman, and I loved him, but I could never bring myself to ever be in love with him. Our platonic relationship had sort of skipped over the compassionate stage of love to a deep, all-knowing, I-Love-Slash-Want-Slash-Need-You-But-Not-In-That-Way thing. Sure, we’ve kissed—a quick touching of the lips at midnight on New Year’s, an Honest-to-God accidental mistletoe encounter at a holiday party, and that recent drunken hook up—and sure, I enjoyed each one. But with Harry, all I needed was him to be there: I needed a body to hold, an ear to listen, a being to be.

My moving to London was completely coincidental. He had moved there first for work, and I finished sixth form in Cheshire as the proud best friend of an Xtra Factor finalist. I had intended to go to Wales for university (I was born there) but another university in London offered me a similar deal. Harry was the one who pressed my moving to the city—he said that he needed someone from his normal life to keep him grounded. So that person ended up being me. Looking back, I’m glad he asked me to move there because it’s nice to be around normal, pre-fame Harry every now and then.

When my phone started ringing I expected it to be my boss calling me in to work early, but the last time I checked, my bosses name wasn’t Harry Styles (Mobile). “Hello?” I asked, curiosity coursing through me. He had been the one to tell me I didn’t get the job, so this was probably another call in his free time to bitch about it.

“Please come on tour with me I miss you so much,” he rushed; it was the fastest I had ever heard him speak. It also wasn’t what I had expected. We had been on one of those talking spells.

I pulled my warm laptop onto my lap, holding the phone between my cheek and shoulder. “I miss you too,” I said automatically. Whenever the talking spells ended, it took us both a few days to realize that we missed each other’s companionship. This sudden confession also made me remember that I had just complained about him on a blog and all the guilt came back.

“Come on tour with me,” he repeated while I absentmindedly logged on to Tumblr to check to see how many people had seen my confession. I prayed that it had gone overlooked because I was going to request for it to be deleted, and the less people knew about it, the better.

“I can’t,” I said sadly, “I have to stay here so I can pay for my flat.” I had a lot of scrolling to do in order to find my post. Maybe it had already been deleted because the owner knew I would be uncomfortable about sharing my insight.

“Please, Bryce,” he begged. I could tell from the tone of his voice he wanted me on tour for other reasons besides the fact that he missed me, but he couldn’t say them out loud at the moment. “I’ll pay your rent while you’re gone if that’s what it takes to get you here. I need you.”

My mouth fell open slightly when I finally found my post. “I can’t let you do that,” I said, but I wasn’t really paying attention to him anymore. The amount of notes the post got…fuck.

“Bryce,” he said seriously, “Please. You can pay me back. I-I really need you right now.”

“Okay, I’ll go,” I said, staring at the screen in awe. The fact that Harry needed me to emotionally support him was only a fraction of the reason I agreed—the comments about us from the post, the amount of negativity surrounding him because he “took advantage of” me, was what did it for me.

Fuck these bitches, I thought, feeling protective of him like he was my child, Do you want to know the real Harry? The real, flawed, funny, awkward, girl-crazy Harry? Because I will go there. I. Will. Go. There.

I’ll make my own blog, I decided. I was sick of only seeing shit about Harry and the boys, like they were sex-crazed animals. I would set the record straight—blog from the inside. I would become One Directions secret publicist, because I knew Tumblr. I knew the way it worked and all of the Directioner inside references. I could mold their image better than their own management team could. I would go there.

“Thank you, Brycey,” he said, sighing with relief. I knew Harry didn’t get along with some of the people on his team, so they must have returned to tour on a bad note.

“Don’t worry about it,” I assured him, “I’m here to protect you.” In more ways than one, my friend.
---
Instead of working as a stylist, I was just on tour at Harry’s request. Management made him tweet a statement about how we weren’t dating (because one, that was gross and two, it was true) but it did nothing to quell the rumors. The Tumblr that I had submitted to assured everyone for me, and she helped me prepare my own blog.

It took off immediately, which was kind of overwhelming; I was open about the fact that I knew Harry because I too was from Holmes Chapel, but I wasn’t ready to explain just how well yet. I knew how Tumblr worked, and I knew people were eager for me to answer their questions or share stories I had. Normally this would have been fine, but even on my first night of tour I found myself to be busier than usual. I blogged during the show (because, even though I was proud of Harry for doing what he loved, one One Direction concert was enough for me. I got it) and planned on resuming my A-ing of Q’s when all of the post-show excitement simmered down.

There was also the fact that I enjoyed socializing with actual people, so my followers would have to wait. That being said, when Niall (the best looking one, in my opinion) asked me if I wanted to accompany him and the rest of One Direction + their guests to a club, I agreed. I mean, I guess—I couldn’t be rude.

“You’re wearing that?” was the first thing Harry asked me when I answered my hotel room door.

“Fuck you,” I scoffed, even though I knew he was only teasing me. He walked inside, stepping over the piles of clothes littering the floor and examining them.

“I told you to bring club outfits,” he said, moving a blouse out of the way with his shoe.

“This is a club outfit, asshole,” I said, looking in the mirror and painting my lips a nice bright pink. I smacked my lips together and turned to him, shaking my hips. “How do I look?”

He looked me up and down shamelessly, eyeing me like I was a piece of meat. I’m making a blog to protect you, but you’re making me want to punch you in the throat, I thought. I popped a hip and crossed my arms, “Let’s just go,” I said, adding an eye roll.

“I’m glad you came,” he said once we made it out to the hallway. He put his hand on my back, leading me to the elevators.

“Niall invited me, I couldn’t say no,” I replied. Let’s face it—even if you don’t like their music, you can’t deny that every single member of One Direction is beautiful. And if they invite you to go a club, you fucking take one for the team and go. I didn’t want to sleep with any of the One Direction boys—not yet, at least, I had to play hard to get—but they played a huge hand in my street credit when it came to attracting a mate.

“No,” he said with a slight laugh, like he was reading my thoughts, “I mean I’m glad you decided to come on tour.”

“Harry,” I said, turning to smile at him, “You know I’ll always be here if you need me.”

“I know,” he said, smiling back. “When I have a chance I’ll explain my desperation.”

“It’s okay,” I said, “I understand.”

He smiled again and we stepped into the empty elevator together. He pressed the lobby button and looked at my reflection in the shiny doors, “There’s a No Sex rule,” he said, amused.

I knew, just as he did, that he wasn’t going to follow this rule. As a matter of fact, what was going to happen was: I was going to sit at the bar and chat him up to suitable girls, while he would pretend to eye me so that other guys got the impression that I was more desirable than I really was. At some point, we would make our switch and Harry would end up with some drunk chick to take back to his room and I got free drinks. I wasn’t in the mood to hookup yet—I needed to test the waters.

“And we know you always follow the rules,” I said flatly, fluffing my hair in the reflection.

A smirk spread across his already-smug face, “Of course.”

We (that being me and Harry, Niall and some guy I didn’t know, Louis and Eleanor, Zayn and some annoying blonde chick that I didn’t care to know, and Liam and some hot guy I didn’t know) walked a block from the hotel to the club, escorted by two security guards, a swarm of paparazzi, and fans desperate for anyone’s attention. That was annoying, but when we got to the club, we acted like we fucking owned the place. And that was awesome.
---
I left the club early with Zayn’s annoying blonde chick—Prairie, or something. Harry had found his prey and I was no longer needed in that department. But Prairie needed me because she was absolutely smashed. I was the one who was put on Prairie Duty because I was the only other female in the group (but that was okay because I was eager to get back on Tumblr).

I didn’t particularly like real-life people if I had only known them a short period of time, especially when they tried to get all emotional. To be honest, I wasn’t huge on emotions—it was a huge shock to everyone (even myself) that I had been with Connor for so long because I normally filed falling in love under ‘POINTLESS’. But this Prairie girl was all about telling me how much she appreciated me and it was weird.

“Alright, babe,” I mused every time she finished a sentence. “Let’s get you to bed now.”

“I love you, Bryce,” she said, clutching on to my arm like she would die if I let her go. She probably would, she was that hammered. “Oh, God, I love you so much.”

“I know,” I told her. I wasn’t even drunk enough to enjoy myself. “Where’s your room key?”

She fell to the ground in a fit of laughter. She was saying something, but I couldn’t understand her through her manly chortle. I had only lived in Wales until I was fifteen, but I swear—sometimes I can’t understand the fucking Brits. I was lucky to have Harry because he spoke slow enough for anyone to catch on.

“What’s that, pet?” I asked, trying to pick her up without the bottom of my dress coming up.

“Zayn has the key!” she exclaimed, laughing even harder.

I just wanted to go on Tumblr. I was trying to protect Harry and the boys, I didn’t know why God was punishing me. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I asked, feeling very irritated because, really, was going on my blog too much to ask?

“Nope,” she said, putting her face in her hands because she couldn’t control her laughter.

I sighed, knowing what needed to be done: I would have to let Prairie sleep in my room until Zayn got back and took her off my hands. That was really going to make blogging hard.

And then God threw me a break because, luckily, Zayn and Harry trotted down the hallway in our direction, some mysterious brunette holding hands with Harry behind him. Zayn (who was the second best looking, really not far from Niall) took Prairie off my hands.

Thank You, God, I sighed. I fished my room key from my purse, so relieved that I could finally return to my online life. You know you’re addicted to the internet when hanging out with celebrities for more than a few hours doesn’t appeal to you.

“Bryce!” Harry hissed, trying to get my attention without weirding out the girl he was with. He pointed at her and gave me two thumbs up.

I shook my head with a laugh, finally getting a chance to shut myself in for the night and put on clothes that wouldn’t judge me.

I didn’t know how long I had been alone, but my phone vibrated from somewhere in the duvet. A new message from Harry: Come over.. x

Thinking that maybe this would lead to a blogging subject, I agreed: Okay, but I don’t have a key.

Harry was almost as slow at texting as he was at speaking. If I had been in the mood, I could have had a three course meal. Instead, I just closed my tired eyes until I felt my phone vibrate in my palm: Check the back pocket of your jeans ;)

My eyebrows shot up. I found the jeans I had been wearing earlier that day, and, sure enough, Harry’s room key was in the pocket. Perv I sent back.

As soon as Harry’s door clicked with confirmation that they key had been accepted, I covered my eyes and blindly stumbled into the room, praying that I wasn’t about to take part in some ménage à trois and that Harry and Mystery Girl were clothed.

I knew Harry was close to me judging me the proximity of his laughter. His warm hand found mine and he unshielded my eyes, revealing himself. He was wearing the same jeans and V-neck that he had been when I last saw him, and Mystery Girl was sitting with her legs crossed at the edge of the couch.

Harry captured his lips with mine, and, although I was surprised, I played along because I knew this game. We weren’t talking threesome, we were talking jealousy. When we broke away after a second, he gave me this quick look as if to thank me. I smiled a little at him before turning to the girl. I felt bad because, here I was, in sweatpants and kissing Harry after no time, and she was all dolled up in her pretty black dress looking a little pissed. The jealously game didn’t work on everybody.

“I don’t think I ever caught your name,” I said to the girl, advancing towards her and sticking out my hand as a symbol of camaraderie.

“Meg,” she said, giving me a twisted, judging expression. She barely made any effort in giving me a wave, let alone a handshake.

My hand dropped, and I felt Harry behind me, “Meg, babe, if you don’t mind…” his hand snaked around my waist. He obviously didn’t see that this ploy wasn’t going to work on her.

She stood up, giving him a wry smile, “Actually, I better get going.”

He was shocked; I elbowed him subtly for being so blind, but there really was nothing I could do at that point. “Are you serious?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, “I’m kind of tired. Thanks for the great night, Harry.”

Harry fell onto the couch in a huff as the door closed, “Well, fuck,” he said, shaking his head.

“You’re only human,” I assured him, sitting down next to him and patting his knee, “Even the great Harry Styles has to strike out sometimes.”

And then I noticed it: the bulge. I had been thinking about sex all night because people were begging for stories of the One Direction boys’ conquests. He must have caught me staring because he bounced his knee up, removing my hand. I looked at him, startled. “Sorry,” I said, embarrassed.

He looked at the ground, “You know, a few nights ago when we…”

“Yep,” I said absentmindedly, looking at the ground as well. I noticed his foot coming closer to mine.

“It wasn’t that bad,” he continued. He was rubbing my leg now.

“Nope,” I agreed.

“So, you know…Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad again…”

“Maybe.”

And then I didn’t even know what was happening. My hair was being ripped from my ponytail, Harry’s jeans were being frustrating, I was getting felt up; it was everything all at once, right there on the couch.

Then when it was over, we redressed without looking at each other, and I left without a word. The funny thing was, from the corner of my eye, I could see Meg knocking on his door again. And I didn’t know what it was, but my insides churned.