Inherent

After having left the beach with Louis in a chaotic mess of confusion and heartache, I all but stumbled to the parking lot in a dazed confusion and sat in my car for nearly ten minutes, lost in thought. I thought about absolutely everything yet found not a single solution to any of my issues, and eventually I gave up, started my car, left the busy city behind me, and got onto the freeway. The solidity of the steering wheel gripped rigidly beneath my hands does not offer any security, not like Harry does when he hugs me and won’t let go until he is certain that I am okay. I’m sure I will never feel comfort like that anywhere else.

The daily commute home is too easy, the memorized route fading into the background of my unseeing eyes as I remain lost in all these roundabout thoughts.

Today has been too much. I don’t know what to think, who to believe, or which advice to follow. I recall Alex’s taunting. Harry… angry, seething Harry, how I have seen him like this more often than not since that girl, the blonde Lucy, showed up. And then Louis’ following confrontation.

It may have been polite, but it was still a confrontation. An ultimatum.

Everyone’s voices swirl on a constant repeat. You have your secret, let me have mine. Alex’s smug comments… don’t say I didn’t warn you. And finally, Louis’ heartfelt advice. You need to talk to Harry—because I don’t know how much longer I can stand to see him like this. I know I have to make up my mind. I know I can’t allow anyone else’s opinions to affect whichever decision I make, even though I have already made it. I miss Harry, so much, but it just isn’t clear to me how we can look past all that has happened, if we can be honest with each other. If we are strong enough to get through this.

We should be. He promised he wouldn’t leave me. And though the both of us may be keeping things from each other, that promise still hasn’t been broken. I am the one who is creating so much distance, after all.

So where do I stand? The hard truth is that I am in the exact place I always have been: hopelessly in love with him. My heart wants him, my heart wants to share everything with him. But I don’t know if I can have him, if I even deserve to. Harry may have secrets, secrets which could very well hurt me… but they mightn’t even have ever been secrets in the first place had I not implied from the start that it was okay for us to keep such huge things from each other.

When it comes down it, I am at the root of this problem. And I have never been good at resolving my own issues—these past two weeks are perfect, glaring proof of that much. This is very much my problem to solve, too, and in that is another problem itself. Being faced with such life changing implications, I stall out, as if I can’t take life’s perils, can’t get past them. And then when I can’t be brave and face them I withdraw. Which is exactly what I am doing, right now.

Or what I did, before Harry tried to storm the book store and Louis confronted me at the beach.

Now, I don’t know what I’m going to do, but whatever it is has to happen soon.

Harry is so very different, too. Much more difficult than anything or anyone I have ever run from. My first instinct is to do the exact opposite of what I have been forcing myself to do—and I wish for nothing more than to be embraced in his protective, strong hold. That same feeling has been present for weeks, months ago, and I know it will remain there, in that same place he fills and strengthens in my heart, in the future. I want him to prop his chin on top of my head, run his fingers down my back in that feather light touch I have come to crave, and murmur words of comfort and encouragement into my ear for only me to hear. I want him sleeping in my bed, I want our late night conversations, I want to play fight with him on his sofa, I want to kiss him senseless.

And I just want to hold him.

To know that he is still here, that he hasn’t left me.

Instead I am driving, my mind hardly even on the road, without even the radio to distract me like I might usually try. Nothing can pull me out of this sadness today. Except for one person, and I just so happen to be avoiding him as if he is contagious. Now I feel like I should finally act on what my heart has always been telling me, but I am much too cowardly to drop everything and go to him, too scared to do as Louis asked.

Stuck like this, without something to push me from my defensive shell I have made a home in for so long now, I will remain exactly as I have always been: cold. Distant. And alone.

Since it is a scorching hot summer day and the air conditioning is defunct in my old Camry, I am forced to roll the window down, allowing the warm breeze to give me some relief from the dry heat. Finally my fingers flick on the radio, and Harry’s favorite indie station begins to play softly. Doing so really only causes me to feel worse, but I can’t bring myself turn it off. To turn off my feelings for him, my love that is still so strong even though I wish for both our sakes that it wasn’t.

I still love him, and this is the fact which absolutely cannot be ignored. The only man I have ever even come close to loving, to trusting, and now there is so much distance between us it feels like the last happy, easy, alive months were all a figment of my imagination, conjured up as some sort of twisted coping mechanism for how lonely and sad my existence was. It is more than just being shown love and yearning for it—he opened my eyes to life, to all I have been missing. I began to live when I met Harry.

Those months are real, though, and that perhaps, might hurt the most. Because this is my reality and I am doing nothing, don’t even know where to begin. What to say, or where to go from here. From all the arguments and hurtful words and the secrets and the warnings. From The Castle, and from my heart and other person Harry might be when he isn’t with me. And my own secret, which is the biggest thing holding me back. Right now, it feels like everything will only lead to a dead end. To more heartache, and I don’t know if I can take that. If I can handle any more than I have already received.

As I pull into my driveway, I hazily take note of the red motorcycle parked on the curb just a few down from my house. It just reminds me of Harry, and I hate myself more. Forcing myself out of the car, my feet carry me toward the front door and suddenly a feeling of helplessness overwhelms me. It starts out as just not knowing what to do with myself for the rest of the day, tomorrow being Saturday, I will have nothing to do then either. With no graphic design job on my plate I will be myself tonight though Vivian has promised to keep me company at her place tomorrow night.

Then, the feeling morphs into a panic I have never quite felt before. I feel as if I have no idea what I’m going to do at all, with anything, and the feeling is terrifying. The realization that I’m going back to my empty house and empty existence, that I don’t have Harry, makes it that much worse.

Taking those deep, methodical breaths I memorized so long ago, I am momentarily distracted after pushing the key into lock only to find it already open. My brow furrows in thought as I try to remember if I secured the door this morning before leaving for the day, like Harry always insisted, or if the old habit formed for Caleb was just too hard to break.

But recently my memory has suffered along with my heart in terms of emotional turmoil, and as a result I go through things in my daily routine slightly out of it, never really in touch with what I’m doing, because it all seems pointless.

The only thing I think about is that before, when I was with Harry, nothing ever seemed pointless. Even the smallest things held meaning.

So I am forced to shrug off the small conundrum, though I pause and frown in thought while swinging the door open as I normally would. Was I really that far away this morning that I didn’t remember? Having been torturing myself with every moment spent with Harry, I feel as though I should have recalled his strong reaction to my leaving doors open for possible uninvited guests.

Nevertheless, I shake my head and stow my keychain back in my bag before I step through the threshold, kicking my shoes off quickly as the door shuts with a soft click. Now I really have no idea what to do, the silence of the house overwhelming.

No, I really don’t like being by alone, as much as I attempted to fool myself before. I don’t like it at all.

I try to suck it up though, knowing it’s my fault, and trudge down the hallway, tucked away in the depths of my mind and my own little world. The small anomaly of the door being unlocked is forgotten quickly, far too exhausted to think too long on it.

Not knowing where else to put myself, I leave my bag on the table along the wall between the living room and kitchen, landing with a thump as despondent as I feel, and leave my vision downcast as I wonder whether or not it is that good of an idea to spend this Friday night parked on the sofa watching crappy reality shows. My business email needs serious attending to, especially since my bank account balance has been steadily dwindling since I finished the job for Lou. Perhaps this is the night to try and attempt some more complicated coding and make those slight alterations to her salon’s website like I have been wanting.

It would be a decent distraction, although a direct link to the man I miss so very much. Lately I can’t even bring myself to do anything close to design, however, which is heartbreaking. I’m neglecting something I love and am so passionate about. It just isn’t possible for me to take enjoyment, even in something which offers a needed, sought after escape from reality.

A splash of cold water to my face during a pit stop in the bathroom does nothing to help me wake up from the steady spell of sadness. Still I can’t seem to fully process all that has happened today, unable to focus on anything, including the events which sent me into such a state.

There always seems to be an invincible obstacle in the way of my happiness. And now, it seems like I might be my own worst enemy. My own mind is a deathtrap, and I’m tired of dwelling on things which should be in my control while I feel like they aren’t. I just want Harry. Without any of these complications.

And then, in the end, nothing ever works anyway. I shouldn’t have thought we would be an exception.

At home alone, I feel more hopeless than ever, and I really wish I could turn off my mind for just a moment. That my heart could have a normal beat, and everything would be okay. Suddenly an overwhelming need to see Grandma fills me, to feel her comforting presence when everything in life has gone so wrong. But I have even been avoiding her, too, in fear that she might be worse than the last time I saw her, might have an episode or something or become totally unresponsive, as she is a lot of times. No longer can I fool myself into thinking that she can hear me, listen when she isn’t even aware of my presence. The thought of a woman who was the equivalent of a superhero to me as a child, someone so strong, crumbling under the pressure of a disease, scares me to no end. While I block out a lot of what the doctor and nurses say of my her health, even when they sugarcoat it for my sake, one thing is fitfully clear: she doesn’t have a lot of time left, and I am wasting every moment of it.

Thinking about this instead of how much I miss Harry doesn’t really do me much good, so I avoid it too. I avoid everything.

One last look in the mirror at my horrid appearance, exhausted and deeply sad, I frown when I find I can’t stand to look at myself any longer. At my blank, glassy eyes, mouth set in a straight lifeless line, and cheeks flushed from all my withheld emotions. It’s as if, by extension, I can’t face reality—that I might have lost Harry once and for all, today being the final straw. And the fact that I won’t have Grandma soon, either, fortifies my feeling of being truly alone.

I look down at the always tidy counter, suddenly aware of the bottle of pills behind the medicine cabinet which are meant to keep me alive. It’s such a melodramatic thought, that they are worthless. Hell, I can’t even remember the last time I took them exactly, since Harry and The Castle. But it seems so trivial to swallow a tablet every single morning just to give my sleep deprived mind an even bigger headache than I already have. My jumbled mind can hardly remember if I took one today, and so with a soft, resigned sigh, I decide against taking one now while it is so late. It might have adverse effects, screwing up my schedule even more, and there exists a real possibility that my heart could suffer more for my negligence.

Right now, though… I find it hard to care. On a small sigh I turn away from the mirror, exit the bathroom and head for my bedroom, still caught up in my thoughts that sitting down at my desk, pushing open my laptop and powering it on are all done in a stupor. If there’s anything capable of slowing down this void of my mind, it would be the numbing task of paying bills.

The bright screen hurts my sensitive eyes and starts an ache in both my temples, and for several seconds my eyelids shut in an effort to rid myself of the pain. Breathing shallowly, I begin mindlessly clicking and typing through my online banking program. For a while I am at as much peace as can be found in this situation, my heart steady and at rest, and the only sound in the house is the soft whir of my computer’s fan. Finally, it’s possible to manage several deep, comforting inhales and exhales as I contemplate whether or not, after finished with this, I should just sleep away my hard to swallow reality for the night.

Such an idea isn’t even really that bad. I do need more sleep, and Grandma’s corduroy couch seems more inviting to curl up and nap on than ever. The small amount of rest might help me figure out how the heck I’m going to fix things with Harry.

In the middle of studying my bank statement, however, a wave of nervous heat overcomes my body, starting from my chest and pluming to my limbs and head as soon as I realize that the retirement home has failed to take this month’s payment for Grandma’s care, as we agreed on monthly installments rather than one huge, impossible sum for the whole year. Without knowing my financial situation, one of the home’s coordinators had suggested this route. I know it’s because they don’t expect her to make it through the year. But I still can’t bring myself to face that reality, and instead reach for my phone, dialing the number I know off by heart with trembling fingers. While I am greeted by the secretary at the main desk and the subsequently transferred to the finance department, I reason that there is nothing wrong on my end.

There can’t be. The funds are there, available in my account, waiting to be withdrawn. These rational thoughts aren’t enough to keep me calm, however, and the brief tranquility I just found has been shattered in a matter of seconds. There is this nagging, persistent, irrational fear that for whatever reason the payment could not be processed over a week ago, fear that because of my neglect lately that Grandma is not getting the proper care she needs and deserves. All because of me.

A light, whispery quiet voice answers eventually, and I spend several minutes providing Hazel, manager of accounts receiving, my information. It’s a wonder I can even pronounce my name correctly, filled with such anxiety and fear that it is hard for me to remember a lot of the details that Hazel needs. I sit straight in my cushioned computer chair, vision unfocussed with all my attention solely on the phone conversation. For the minute it takes for her to retrieve my account information, I have nearly bitten my lip off altogether in worry. Nothing else occupies my thoughts, so intent on my protective need to help my grandmother than for right now, nothing else matters.

“Well, Miss Townsend,” Hazel eventually rasps. I can’t help but to think she could hurry this up at least a little, though the audible click of keyboard keys is easily heard in the background noise through the phone, a sign that she isn’t stalling. “My system is telling me that the payment for this month has been verified.”

Befuddled, I blink through all the confusion and Hazel’s statement doesn’t help my panic dissipate any. I know for a fact that the money hasn’t been taken from my account, so where could they have gotten it?

“But how can that be?” I press, afraid that she will hang up and leave me helpless, and try to sound as calm as possible. “There must be some mistake.”

“Just hold on, one moment, while I pull up the payment details.” I murmur some indecipherable form of agreement in reply. The truth is I would wait all day if I had to. One thing I know for sure—I’m not ending this call until I receive a straight answer.

“Hmm…” The clack of Hazel’s nails against the keyboard grows louder, and with it my apprehension intensifies. What? What did she find? “The account information is restricted… actually, goodness…”

“Um—is something wrong?” I can’t help but to question with panic embedded in my tone, now plain and thick.

“No, no. It just says here that the next six months of your grandmother’s care have been paid for in advance.”

“Pardon?” I ask dumbly. Surely, I must have heard her wrong. There is no way.

“That’s right,” the advisor says, sounding equally shocked. “Paid for in full by a—Francis Albert.”

“Who?” I ask dumbly again, still incredulous.

“Francis Albert S,” she confirms slowly, and I have to imagine she is squinting at the computer screen to ensure she is reading it correctly. My question happened to be rhetorical, but I’m glad she repeated it anyway.

The name rings a bell somehow, as if tapping some memory I can’t quite recall, but I come up short. Francis Albert S…

Frustration builds within me quickly, frustration at some stupid name attached to a person I have never heard of. Why on earth would they pay for Grandma’s care? I don’t like donations, pity, or the fact that I now feel like I owe all this money to someone. My cheeks begin to heat as my anger rises with every infuriating thought. “I don’t even know—”

“Just one second.” This shuts me up. Please, tell me this is some mistake. The wrong account, something. Anything. “There’s no other information given, so this must have been an anonymous donation. A lot of the time in these cases, fake names are given.”

“This happens often?” I question, astonished.

“Not really.” Through the phone I can hear Hazel’s smile, as though in awe of someone’s good deed. It’s too bad I can’t look at it in the same light—far from it, I feel like I am going to be sick.

Rubbing my temple with my free hand, I sigh and lean forward onto the desk, eyes closed against the increasing ache in my head. Even with such a negative reaction I try to find the good, which is obviously present, from this revelation. Grandma will be cared for over the next six months and the knowledge that I won’t have to worry like I usually do is in reality a huge relief. Gratitude is there, because this payment is no small amount by any means… but my naturally curious nature is present, too, and it isn’t abnormal for me to wonder exactly where the money came from. Part of me wants to believe it was simply a stranger intent on doing something good for someone who clearly needs it, like Grandma, but I know better.

The other, larger portion of me suspects one person… and one person only, who would have that much money lying around and be crazy enough to do something like this with it. But I can’t let my paranoia and suspicion get to me this much, without any evidence. One thing I know—there is no one left on Dad’s side of the family, and long ago before he died, Mom and Grandma had a huge falling out, right around the divorce.

I was too young to recall, having been only a toddler, but I know it was bad. They wouldn’t even speak after Caleb and I chose to move here. Mom definitely would not fork over the cash to pay for Grandma’s care, even with her deteriorating health.

If I turn out to be right about the culprit… I don’t know yet how to feel. I abhor being in debt to anyone, let alone owing thousands of dollars. We aren’t talking about pocket change in this instance, and Grandma is my responsibility. I need to take care of her in return for the years’ worth of trouble she signed up for by taking us in as small children, when she was already retired, supposed to have been enjoying her life stress-free. The issues she inherited with us were enough to last a lifetime… an addict and a little girl with a fragile, already broken heart. She cared for us while mourning the loss of her own son, while his wife was too selfish to take care of their children.

If it weren’t for Grandma, I would have felt like an orphan after Dad died. For months we lived with Mom, yet we only saw her a handful of times, our primary caregiver being a nanny while she was off, pretending to be normal and happy far away from us, working in Europe. I owe Grandma everything.

Slowly, I open my eyes and lean back to stare up at the ceiling, trying to figure out what exactly is happening, where I will go from here.

Today I have learned two totally different contradicting things about Harry—Alex warned me that he is ‘bad news’, then Louis delivered the truth about how bad he has been since what happened at The Castle… and this, now. It can’t be that much of a coincidence—luck like this just doesn’t come to me. Having not heard from any other extended family, aside from my mother of course, no one else has so much to give.

Harry saw all those bills on my counter, picked them up from the floor. He knows I have been struggling; he is the only realistic possibility.

But why would he, when I have been ignoring him for so long now?

“Miss Townsend?” The financial advisor’s voice catapults me back to the present after I have fallen silent for several seconds, and I blink against reality. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Yes,” I blurt, making another one of my usually troublesome snap decisions. “Yes, actually. Can you please return those payments?”

I try to phrase the request casually, so as not to draw attention the quite obvious fact that I am verging on hysteria, but the lady on the other end falls quiet at such a question, and then she breathes a surprised “—oh.”

“Would that be a problem?”

“It’s just, since this was made anonymously, we didn’t retain any of the financial information. Everything was kept totally private, I’m afraid. I wouldn’t be able to return these payments even if I wanted to.”

My jaw clenches at the news—if Harry did this, then I suspect he knew this all along. That’s why he chose to pay anonymously so there would be no chance of getting the ridiculous amount of money back.

If I ever work up the nerve to talk to him, he is going to receive one huge, rambled verbal beating.
And if it turns out that he is indeed this mystery person, then I have news for him and his scheming plot to make the money non-returnable. I would take my last breath before I allowed someone to take so much pity on me. This has and always will be my responsibility—not anyone else’s. Certainly not Harry Styles’.

“So there’s no way to give it back?” I press on, desperate and hoping in vain.

“No, I’m afraid not. Whoever this was wanted to make sure the money stays, Miss Townsend.”

Trying not to sound quite so ungrateful, I smile bitterly. That stubborn, sly, kind son of a bitch. “Okay, that’s fine then. Thank you.”

After I hang up and spend a few fleeting moments staring at my phone, sat lifeless in the chair, with my eyes closed and head tilted back while fighting the urge to cry my heart out until it works right, I come to terms with why I am so upset.

It’s not that Harry took pity on me, not really. It is instead one single fact: I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve his generosity, his kindness, I don’t deserve his love. I don’t deserve anything from him.

But he keeps giving it to me.

With a long, heavy sigh, I eventually shut my computer down and vacate my bedroom, looking forward to that nap. I can’t just call Harry and spew accusations of anonymous donations or fist fights and blackened eyes from weeks ago. As much as it is tempting, I just can’t. I don’t want any more arguing—not tonight.

On the same thought as I had before any of this further complicated my situation, maybe if I get some rest an idea to solve this will come to light.

Surely it can’t be as easy as picking up the phone, apologizing, and asking to talk. It can’t.

Experience and terrible memories tell me one definite thing: it is never that easy. Just look at The Castle, at how quickly things went wrong. How quick Harry was to anger, how fast I was to bail. Would the same events just repeat themselves? Because I don’t know if I could handle it. I don’t know if my heart could handle it.

Sleep. What I need is sleep, and lots of it. Or as much as I can get in my current insomnia-ridden state. If luck is on my side, maybe I won’t wake up until tomorrow morning. It isn’t as if I’m not exhausted enough for such a thing to happen, should I ever achieve the feat of actually getting to sleep.

I don’t make it far at all into the living room, however, because a pair of combat boots attached to slender, leather-sheathed legs comes into my downshifted view, and while releasing nothing more than girlish shriek I stumble backward, comprehending only one thing.

Someone is in my house—someone who should not be here.

Notes

Helloooooo :)

I'm late, I know, and I apologize. I had to split this chapter in half because it is so long, and I'm sorry for that too because I know some of you guys don't like that. But the other half is done, so I promise (and mean it) that it will be posted soon!

Other than that, I don't have much to say. Leave a comment, show some love, let me know you're still reading? :)

Oh... who do you think could be waiting for Jules, and what might they want? Of course, I can't give anything away. Hahaha!

xxx