I'll Let You Live
No. 1 Party Anthem
“She's a certified mind blower
Knowing full well that I don't
May suggest there's somewhere from which I might know her
Just to get the ball to roll
Drunken monologues, confused because
It's not like I'm falling in love I just want you to do me no good
And you look like you could”
“Hey,” the cashier doesn’t bother looking at me as she counts change. “What’s up?”
“Deciding on pastries,” I mumble while browsing the giant, glass case of cakes and muffins and cookies.
“What would you like?” she finally looks at me.
Every pastry you sell. “I’ll take a cranberry muffin,” I smile.
“Nice, how many?”
All of them. “Just one.”
The cashier stares at me.
“What?” I roll my eyes.
“No, mocha today?” her jaw drops.
“I’m just not thirsty,” I sigh. “Look, Ari needs me home soon, so please hurry.”
“That’ll be $3.50,” Nicole raises her eyebrows and takes my money no questions asked. Just the way I like it.
I leave with a brown bag in hand. I cringe at the way the bell above the door chimes when I open it to leave. I would really appreciate it if my departure would not be announced to the entire coffee shop. Though there are so many people inside that I doubt anyone noticed. No one ever really notices the little things, like how the bell only chimes three times or how the tip jar never has more than $4.25 in it. Nicole claims that baristas cannot pay the gas money on the mere minimum wage.
As I walk the two short blocks back to my apartment, raindrops start to pepper my skin. By the time I reach the door, there are tiny rivers running down my arms and through my hair.
“Oh my God. Wren!” A petite Oriental girl sits aghast on the living room couch. “Did you walk all the way in the rain?”
“No,” I huff as I shut the door forcefully against the wind. “I thought I’d take a nice, cold shower before I got here. With my clothes on.”
“You’re going to get pneumonia!” she ignores my sarcasm and stands up from the couch abruptly. “I just made some tea. I’ll get you a mug.”
I nod tiredly and sink into an armchair. Opening my bag, I find sudden comfort within the folds of the brown paper packaging. Ari soon enters the room again.
“I don’t understand how you do it,” she sighs as she hands me a steamy mug of what smells like chamomile.
“Drm hrm?” I don’t even try to enunciate through the mouthful of muffin.
“How you eat like 12 times your body weight every day and manage to stay under 115,” she picks up a glossy magazine from our tiny, wooden coffee table.
“Yeah, well I didn’t choose this life,” I murmur before taking another bite into my muffin.
At the sound of her sniff, I feel guilty for snapping.
“So why did you want me home early?” I hope my feigned interest will reconcile.
When she immediately drops her magazine to reveal a grin, I realize that I am right.
“We are having a party tonight,” her entire face is like one of those digital signs in Times Square.
“You know how I feel about large social gatherings,” I groan throwing my head back. “What is it even for?”
“It’s not going to be large,” she says defensively. “It’s going to be about 20 people. I’m throwing a party for Harry.”
“The Harry?” I set down what is left of my muffin. “Harry-in-the-internationally-famous-boyband Styles?
“Yes,” she purses her lips. “He’s going to the UK with the other boys to record some stuff for the new album next week and he’s not going to be back for a few months. And he likes the idea of a small get-together.”
With Ari’s job as an interviewer for Teen Vogue, I always knew that she was friends with famous people like Harry Styles. But it was still weird thinking about having an A-list celebrity in our house for a “small get-together”. I mean, Ari is close friends with Harry and I have known this for some time, but this is The Harry Styles. The only things I know about him are the bizarre stories Ari tells me and what I see on the front covers of teenage driven magazines.
“What time?” I sigh.
“In an hour,” she covers her tiny smile with her hand.
“Seriously,” my eyes widen. “You could have just texted me!”
“We both know you would’ve come up with an excuse and holed yourself up in the record shop,” Ari knows me better than I know myself.
“Okay,” I throw up my hands in defeat. “What do I even wear?”
“Wear my black dress,” a mischievous grin spreads on her lips.
“You know that collar and back plunge lower than my self-esteem,” I frown.
“You would look great in it,” she laughs. “I look like a slut, but you can pull it off. Your soft features even it out.”
And lo and behold an hour later I am standing uncomfortably in high heels with the black dress clinging to my frame. I will admit I do look good in it, but it’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone anyway. I’m standing against a wall with a drink in hand hoping that the dark lighting can shade me. Ari is probably somewhere in the kitchen trying to build more connections with important people.
My eyes are drawn to a tall figure dancing in the center of the living room. He is in the crowd, yet he is not a part of it. He laughs animatedly at everything happening around him, but he isn’t drunk. The reflection of the multicolored lights seems to live in his once-styled curls. His body moves fluidly and abruptly all at once. It’s like the law of gravity doesn’t apply to him. I want to focus on something else like how One Direction really shouldn’t be playing at a party in which a member of One Direction is attending - how tacky - but I can’t seem to tear my gaze away from the effervescent being. There’s something about him that I can’t figure out. As if there’s something that is supposed to be blatantly obvious, but I can’t put my finger on it.
My gazing must be obvious because he pauses when he makes eye contact. I hold my breath and stare straight into the bottom of my nearly empty cup as he walks over.
“Not much for dancing?” a deep English accent resounds near my ear.
“I only dance when the music is good,”I don’t turn to him. With my back straight against the wall, I calmly take a sip of my water.
“Now that is offensive.”
The amused tone of his voice begs to differ.
“So is this song,” I hide my smirk behind the brim of my plastic cup.
“Alright,” he says with a short laugh. “At least they’re not playing that goddamn selfie song.”
“Amen,” I raise my hand up.
And then there it is. The selfie song plays the second after I speak.
As I turn to the man beside me, in my peripherals I see that he turns at the same time. We stare at each other before bursting into laughter.
“That timing,” he laughs.
“That was great,” I chuckle.
“So what’s your name?” he asks before a small gulp of his drink.
I hesitate. There’s no turning back if I tell him my name. I promised I wouldn’t do this. Oh what the hell.
“Wren Cardiff,” I lift up my chin a bit.
“Like the little bird?” he raises an eyebrow. “Double-yoo-ah-eeh-ehn?”
“Mhm,”I give a small nod, but inside I’m squealing at his British pronunciation, something you do not hear on a regular basis in L.A. Geez, control yourself. “And yours?”
“You don’t know who I am?” he raises both eyebrows this time.
“Of course I know who you are,” I smirk. “I’m giving you the chance to introduce yourself like a normal person. Isn’t that what all you celebrities make a point of saying?”
A grin spreads across his face revealing the deepest dimples I have ever seen in my life.
“I like you,” he says. “You’re…”
“A bitch?”
“You’re hilarious.”
“Contrary to popular belief,” I reply. I smile when it earns another chuckle.
“So since you have such a strong distaste for pop music, what do you deem worthy of listening to?” he asks.
“It’s not that I hate pop musi –“
“OhmyGod, Harry,” a random girl with obviously dyed blonde hair grabs Harry’s arm. “You’ve got to see what Bryan has done!”
Before being dragged away, Harry shoots me an apologetic look and yells something along the lines of “I’ll see you tomorrow”.
Knowing full well that I don't
May suggest there's somewhere from which I might know her
Just to get the ball to roll
Drunken monologues, confused because
It's not like I'm falling in love I just want you to do me no good
And you look like you could”
“Hey,” the cashier doesn’t bother looking at me as she counts change. “What’s up?”
“Deciding on pastries,” I mumble while browsing the giant, glass case of cakes and muffins and cookies.
“What would you like?” she finally looks at me.
Every pastry you sell. “I’ll take a cranberry muffin,” I smile.
“Nice, how many?”
All of them. “Just one.”
The cashier stares at me.
“What?” I roll my eyes.
“No, mocha today?” her jaw drops.
“I’m just not thirsty,” I sigh. “Look, Ari needs me home soon, so please hurry.”
“That’ll be $3.50,” Nicole raises her eyebrows and takes my money no questions asked. Just the way I like it.
I leave with a brown bag in hand. I cringe at the way the bell above the door chimes when I open it to leave. I would really appreciate it if my departure would not be announced to the entire coffee shop. Though there are so many people inside that I doubt anyone noticed. No one ever really notices the little things, like how the bell only chimes three times or how the tip jar never has more than $4.25 in it. Nicole claims that baristas cannot pay the gas money on the mere minimum wage.
As I walk the two short blocks back to my apartment, raindrops start to pepper my skin. By the time I reach the door, there are tiny rivers running down my arms and through my hair.
“Oh my God. Wren!” A petite Oriental girl sits aghast on the living room couch. “Did you walk all the way in the rain?”
“No,” I huff as I shut the door forcefully against the wind. “I thought I’d take a nice, cold shower before I got here. With my clothes on.”
“You’re going to get pneumonia!” she ignores my sarcasm and stands up from the couch abruptly. “I just made some tea. I’ll get you a mug.”
I nod tiredly and sink into an armchair. Opening my bag, I find sudden comfort within the folds of the brown paper packaging. Ari soon enters the room again.
“I don’t understand how you do it,” she sighs as she hands me a steamy mug of what smells like chamomile.
“Drm hrm?” I don’t even try to enunciate through the mouthful of muffin.
“How you eat like 12 times your body weight every day and manage to stay under 115,” she picks up a glossy magazine from our tiny, wooden coffee table.
“Yeah, well I didn’t choose this life,” I murmur before taking another bite into my muffin.
At the sound of her sniff, I feel guilty for snapping.
“So why did you want me home early?” I hope my feigned interest will reconcile.
When she immediately drops her magazine to reveal a grin, I realize that I am right.
“We are having a party tonight,” her entire face is like one of those digital signs in Times Square.
“You know how I feel about large social gatherings,” I groan throwing my head back. “What is it even for?”
“It’s not going to be large,” she says defensively. “It’s going to be about 20 people. I’m throwing a party for Harry.”
“The Harry?” I set down what is left of my muffin. “Harry-in-the-internationally-famous-boyband Styles?
“Yes,” she purses her lips. “He’s going to the UK with the other boys to record some stuff for the new album next week and he’s not going to be back for a few months. And he likes the idea of a small get-together.”
With Ari’s job as an interviewer for Teen Vogue, I always knew that she was friends with famous people like Harry Styles. But it was still weird thinking about having an A-list celebrity in our house for a “small get-together”. I mean, Ari is close friends with Harry and I have known this for some time, but this is The Harry Styles. The only things I know about him are the bizarre stories Ari tells me and what I see on the front covers of teenage driven magazines.
“What time?” I sigh.
“In an hour,” she covers her tiny smile with her hand.
“Seriously,” my eyes widen. “You could have just texted me!”
“We both know you would’ve come up with an excuse and holed yourself up in the record shop,” Ari knows me better than I know myself.
“Okay,” I throw up my hands in defeat. “What do I even wear?”
“Wear my black dress,” a mischievous grin spreads on her lips.
“You know that collar and back plunge lower than my self-esteem,” I frown.
“You would look great in it,” she laughs. “I look like a slut, but you can pull it off. Your soft features even it out.”
And lo and behold an hour later I am standing uncomfortably in high heels with the black dress clinging to my frame. I will admit I do look good in it, but it’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone anyway. I’m standing against a wall with a drink in hand hoping that the dark lighting can shade me. Ari is probably somewhere in the kitchen trying to build more connections with important people.
My eyes are drawn to a tall figure dancing in the center of the living room. He is in the crowd, yet he is not a part of it. He laughs animatedly at everything happening around him, but he isn’t drunk. The reflection of the multicolored lights seems to live in his once-styled curls. His body moves fluidly and abruptly all at once. It’s like the law of gravity doesn’t apply to him. I want to focus on something else like how One Direction really shouldn’t be playing at a party in which a member of One Direction is attending - how tacky - but I can’t seem to tear my gaze away from the effervescent being. There’s something about him that I can’t figure out. As if there’s something that is supposed to be blatantly obvious, but I can’t put my finger on it.
My gazing must be obvious because he pauses when he makes eye contact. I hold my breath and stare straight into the bottom of my nearly empty cup as he walks over.
“Not much for dancing?” a deep English accent resounds near my ear.
“I only dance when the music is good,”I don’t turn to him. With my back straight against the wall, I calmly take a sip of my water.
“Now that is offensive.”
The amused tone of his voice begs to differ.
“So is this song,” I hide my smirk behind the brim of my plastic cup.
“Alright,” he says with a short laugh. “At least they’re not playing that goddamn selfie song.”
“Amen,” I raise my hand up.
And then there it is. The selfie song plays the second after I speak.
As I turn to the man beside me, in my peripherals I see that he turns at the same time. We stare at each other before bursting into laughter.
“That timing,” he laughs.
“That was great,” I chuckle.
“So what’s your name?” he asks before a small gulp of his drink.
I hesitate. There’s no turning back if I tell him my name. I promised I wouldn’t do this. Oh what the hell.
“Wren Cardiff,” I lift up my chin a bit.
“Like the little bird?” he raises an eyebrow. “Double-yoo-ah-eeh-ehn?”
“Mhm,”I give a small nod, but inside I’m squealing at his British pronunciation, something you do not hear on a regular basis in L.A. Geez, control yourself. “And yours?”
“You don’t know who I am?” he raises both eyebrows this time.
“Of course I know who you are,” I smirk. “I’m giving you the chance to introduce yourself like a normal person. Isn’t that what all you celebrities make a point of saying?”
A grin spreads across his face revealing the deepest dimples I have ever seen in my life.
“I like you,” he says. “You’re…”
“A bitch?”
“You’re hilarious.”
“Contrary to popular belief,” I reply. I smile when it earns another chuckle.
“So since you have such a strong distaste for pop music, what do you deem worthy of listening to?” he asks.
“It’s not that I hate pop musi –“
“OhmyGod, Harry,” a random girl with obviously dyed blonde hair grabs Harry’s arm. “You’ve got to see what Bryan has done!”
Before being dragged away, Harry shoots me an apologetic look and yells something along the lines of “I’ll see you tomorrow”.
Notes
The first chapter, whoaaa. I hope you enjoyed it! Feel free to leave a comment/constructive criticism. Not really much to comment on since this is the first chapter, but how do you think Harry and Wren will progress from this?
Thank you for reading and make sure to subscribe if you want to read more! c:
~christi ellie
Updateeeee x
6/7/14