Stockholm Syndrome

Saturday, September 4th, 9:36 p.m. A few unknowing hours before my life would be turned upside down. My last day of freedom and I was stuck at work of all places. I was trying my damn hardest to keep hidden from my boss, trying to avoid the question from him that I knew was coming. I kept my back turned when I heard the footsteps I knew all too well approaching me.

“There you are, Louise.”

Ugh. The all too familiar tone of someone who’s about to ask a favor from you. I knew it all too well, especially from my manager. I whipped around to face him as I attempted to fit three kale salads, a plate of truffle fries, and a Pasta Primavera all onto one tray. “Yes, Leo?”

“Can you work late tonight?”

Boom goes the dynamite. There it was. I had worked late the last three nights in a row, so while it was posed as a question, I knew it really wasn’t up for discussion. I was lucky to even be working at The Nice Guy to begin with. Sure, the extra cash was nice, but I was practically a walking zombie in a server’s uniform. And to top it all off, it was the first week of my first year of college. ‘Exhausted’ was an understatement.

“You’ll be out of here by midnight,” he continued, edging me on as if he thought I’d say no.
I sighed, forcing a smile to decorate my lips. “Sure.” It’s fine, I didn’t want to leave at nine o’clock anyway.

“Thank you. Don’t worry, I’m hiring soon,” I guess my attempt at hiding my slight irritation had failed. At least he was getting help - us current employees were stretched way too thin and it’d be nice to have a few extra pairs of hands to help. Whatever. As long as I was getting paid I didn’t care. He patted me on the shoulder before adding, “Oh yeah, and Table 3 wants a bottle of Perrier-Jouet Belle Epoque Rose.”

Whoa...that was The Nice Guy’s expensive wine - $1,700 a bottle to be exact. These rich people of L.A., I swear. I was finally getting used to seeing celebrities while working at one of the most exclusive restaurants in L.A. - or so I thought I was - but I just couldn’t possibly fathom who’d spend that much on a bottle of wine. I turned to face Leo. “Who’s ordered that?”

A chuckle escaped his mouth. “See for yourself.”

I hoisted the hefty tray I’d been filling onto my shoulder and hastily made my way out to the correct table, trying to get a glimpse of who had taken a seat at Table 3 so I could mentally prepare myself before serving them. I set down the other table’s food down and slyly let my glimpse wander to Table 3’s direction while making my way back to the kitchen. I caught sight of a leggy blonde, a busty brunette, and a few chiseled-to-perfection guys. Damn, no one important. Instagram famous models, for sure - or maybe even some up-and-coming reality T.V. stars that were already blowing their new money. $1,700 for a bottle of wine? Pfft. I knew their kind all too well. I briskly scurried back to the kitchen to fulfill their request.

“Be prepared,” Leo murmured to me as I prepared the Perrier-Jouet Belle Epoque Rose, “they’re rude as fuck.”

A quick sigh escaped my lips. “Who are they?”

“Models. One is the daughter of...what’s her face...I can’t remember...”

Ugh. I quickly looked into the reflection of a towel dispenser and smoothed back my hair as if it’d somehow drastically improve my appearance - as if I’d be able to compare to the models in any way. I wasn’t even in their league. I furrowed my eyebrows in dissatisfaction as I stared at my reflection. I was just a scrawny little girl with boring brown hair and boring brown eyes. I hated my stupid big nose and my stupid freckles and my stupid bones that stuck out.

“Louise?”

Fuck, dazed out again. I always did that. “Sorry. Yeah?”

Leo chuckled. “I said be nice. Please. I know how you get.”

I scoffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He chuckled again and nudged me toward the door. “Just bring them their wine.”

I, too, let out a little laugh as I grabbed a cork opener and made my way out. He had a point, I couldn’t deny that - I could get a little snippy at times. But what could he expect? I was running on hardly any sleep.

I composed myself and cooly headed on toward Table 3. Just drop the wine off and leave, Louise. Ten steps away, nine steps away, eight...three, two...

Thud. Crash. Gasps. Silence.

Oh shit. My head tried to turn but my chin lay reluctant on the floor. Then came the taste of blood. Fuck, did I bite my tongue? Damn it, the wine - it was bleeding out of a shattered bottle in front of my eyes on the ground. And then an agonizing twinge of pain in my ankle. What the hell just happened?

A single pair of footsteps came rushing toward me. Leo’s. He lay a hand on my back. “Are you okay?”

I opened mouth to answer but nothing came out. I’d had the wind knocked right out of me. The room began filling with irritated/disgusted/annoyed murmurs. I heard a few “ugh”s and a couple “they need better staff”s. Then another pair of footsteps made their way over to me from behind. More hands on my back. That was the first time you’d touch me.

Leo leaned down to whisper in my ear. “Get up, Louise.”

I opened my mouth again and felt something dripping down my chin. Was it blood? I could feel my heart pounding against the floorboards. I attempted to lift myself and turn around to sit on my butt until I was met with the worst pain I’d ever felt. An involuntary “fuck!” escaped my lips.

Gasps filled the room.

Leo erected and called the room to attention with a charming smile. “She’s fine, everyone. Continue on with your night.”

The room moved from silence to quiet whispers to louder murmurs and finally back to normal conversation . Now I was just the idiot laying facedown on the ground in the middle of a restaurant. I heard Leo quickly assure Table 3 that another wine would be on it’s way momentarily before crouching down to my level again. I still felt unfamiliar hands on my body anticipating helping me up off the ground.

He spoke softly to the person behind my back. “Let’s get her up on three. One, two, three.”

Before I could object I was being lifted off the ground and set upright on my feet. And oh my God, the pain. I felt as if 1,000 sharp knives were being thrust through my left ankle and at my first attempt in putting weight on it I went tumbling to the floor once more.

“Fuck sake, my ankle,” I whimpered, clenching my eyes shut in agony. I still tasted blood in my mouth. Why was I such a God damn klutz?

“You have blood on your face,” Leo whispered, confirming my earlier suspicions. Stupid tongue. Leo told me to be nice to the models and bite my tongue - this definitely wasn’t what he meant.

“I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving me there with whoever it was behind my back. This is so embarrassing. I want to be off this floor right now. My hands found the floor as I attempted to lift myself again, but I was met with two strong hands on my shoulders stopping my actions.

“Stay still.” You whispered from behind me. Hold on. I knew your voice. No. It couldn’t be you.

“I need to get up.”

You kept your hands on my shoulders and you spoke low with concern riddled in your tone.

“You’ll hurt yourself more.”

Your voice again. It sounded even more familiar this time. It couldn’t be Harry Styles. No fucking way. I did not just fall face first, bite my tongue, and possibly break my ankle in front of Harry fucking Styles.

Leo reappeared hastily with paper towels and wiped the blood from my chin. He spoke close to my face as to not draw any more attention to us. “You need to get up. We have people to serve. Please.”

“There’s something wrong with my ankle,” I whispered.

“You probably just twisted it, Louise. Just get up and walk it off.”

“Don’t make her walk, man. She’s clearly fucked up her ankle.” It was you again. You knew Leo. And you were defending me. You didn’t even know me and you were defending me. For all you knew it could’ve just been a simple twisted ankle.

Leo smiled politely back to you. “She’ll be fine, Harry.”

Oh my God. He said Harry. It was you.

I obeyed Leo’s demands and tried to rise once more. I wanted to see you for myself. But my attempts were just met with a whine leaving my lips and a few tears running down my cheek.
Was I really crying in front of you?

“You should probably get someone to cover for her,” y0u suggested, letting your hand linger from my shoulder to my arm. “She needs to get her ankle checked out.”

“I can’t leave,” Leo whispered, frustration lingering in his throat.

And once more I was being briskly lifted from the floor, your strong hands gripping my arms tightly. Without missing a beat or letting me slip, you moved out from behind me into my line of sight and confirmed my thoughts. You were Harry fucking Styles, and God damn did you look like the world’s most famous popstar. You were decorated in black skinny jeans, a floral printed Gucci shirt, and the most expensive looking shoes I’d ever seen. Your hair looked as if it’d been brushed by some sort of God and your skin was absolutely glowing. Wow. “I’ll take her.”

Whoa. What the hell. Did I just hear that right? Did you just offer to take me to the hospital? What the fuck was happening? I had been obsessed with you. I had watched you on the X Factor. Been to your concerts. Cried when One Direction broke up. And now, here I was, your hands around my arms, unable to even comprehend what was happening.

Leo put his hand up in objection. “Don’t be ridiculous, Harry.”

“It’s fine. I was just leaving anyway.”

Before I could even get a word out - though I don’t know what I would’ve even said - you were moving to my weak side to escort me out of The Nice Guy. The last thing I remember is taking
one step and hearing Leo say, “you have work tomorrow at five.”


And after that, everything went black.

Notes

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