Turquoise

The grounds were cleaned up and the weak coffee was consumed without another word spoken between Harry and Abby. She stood at the sink, gulping down the first mug before topping up and disappearing into the reception room. He quietly sat at the kitchen table, slowly sipping the coffee – that was a bit weak, though he would rather hang from the Eiffel Tower by his eyelids than ever admit it to Abby.

Abby tensed as she heard the kitchen chair scrape against the tiled floor. Harry was as irritating as a fruit fly and Abby wouldn’t be shocked if he decided to join her, just to harass her further about her career or personality. Her lips pursed as she heard his footsteps but she breathed out a sigh of relief as she heard him thunder up the stairs instead.

She sat on the couch, legs curled under her as she listened to the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall. This was what she hoped for at Mike and Jenna’s – quiet mornings to herself, sipping coffee in front of the French doors, watching the world wake up. Not being wound up tighter than a top, anticipating the next insult or argument from a puffed-up pop star. He had to leave.

Finishing the last of her coffee, Abby went back into the kitchen, the smell of coffee grounds still lingering. Despite the early hour, Abby had promised Jenna homemade baklava. Figuring there was no time like the present, Abby stuck her cup in the dishwasher and began pawing through the cupboards for supplies. Methodically setting up the ingredients and supplies along the countertop, Abby already began to calm down. Cooking was relaxing for her. She only hoped it stayed that way.

Harry stood under the shower stream, the hot water awaking his senses more than the caffeine had. He smirked as he thought about the morning argument over coffee grounds and realised, despite Abby’s ability to annoy the ever-loving shit out of him, it had been almost… fun. He still couldn’t bring himself to apologise for his comments the night before, and he couldn’t forget hers, but trying Abby’s patience could be an entertaining pastime.

Grinning to himself, he quickly dressed and bounded down the stairs, following the sound of the radio to the kitchen. As he entered, the sound of the radio was overpowered by Abby’s off-key voice rapping to Vanilla Ice. He watched her for a moment, snickering to himself as her muddled accent spat out the wrong words.

“Vanilla is a nine?” Harry repeated, laughing loudly as Abby jumped, Harry’s voice startling her. “Don’t stop on my account,” he added, stepping to the table and pulling out a chair. He sat down, resting his elbows on his knees as though he was anxiously anticipating the next verse.

Abby could feel her face warm and she was certain she was head-to-toe crimson. He was worse than a fruit fly. He was a toddler in dire need of Adderall. Mortified, she turned back to her baking task, hiding her flushed face. “Fuck off,” she muttered, stirring the butter on the stove.

Harry laughed again, pleased he was getting under her skin. “Oh, come on!” he pleaded facetiously. “I want to hear the next verse! See if you can shatter some windows with that voice of yours!”

Abby dropped the spoon into the butter, turning to face Harry with her hands haughtily placed on her hips. “You know, Harry, just because you have a good voice doesn’t mean you have the right to make fun of those of us who don’t,” she snapped, realising she’d offered him a compliment as soon as the words flew from her mouth.
Harry grinned, Abby’s agitated demeanour tickling him. “You think I have a good voice?” he chuckled, though amazed she’d offered him a compliment, accidentally or not.

“No,” Abby answered quickly, turning back to the stove. The heat from the element felt cooler than her face. She was so annoyed with herself, letting Harry get under her skin like he did. She took a deep breath as she fished the spoon out of the melted butter. From now on, she wouldn’t answer him. No matter what he said, or now he annoyed her, she was officially a mute.

“You do,” Harry sang out tauntingly. “I definitely can’t say the same to you, but…”

Abby closed her eyes briefly, reminding herself of her pact. Mute. She silently stirred the butter, ladling out the foam on the top of the pot. She dumped the foam into a bowl, systematically repeating the steps. Ladle. Pour. Ignore. Ladle. Pour. Ignore.

Harry stood up, crossing the kitchen and snagging an apple from the bowl of fruit. “So, what else can you do mediocrely?” he pondered, hoisting himself onto the counter next to Abby’s ingredients. He grinned as he chewed, revealing the half-mashed fruit to Abby. “I mean, obviously we know acting and singing are on the list,” he jibbed cruelly, ticking off on his fingers. “What about your cooking?” he asked, gesturing to Abby’s concoctions. “I mean, what is this junk, anyway?” he wondered, flicking his wrist at the bowl of liquid.

Abby’s jaw tightened at his words, but she reminded herself that Harry and his opinions didn’t matter to her. He didn’t matter to her. She knew he was just trying to get her to snap, and she refused to play his little game. He was nothing more than a bored little boy. He laughed again at her silence, flakes of chewed apple spitting from his mouth. Despite her reminder, she was unable to maintain her cool. Tightly grasping the metal spoon, she whipped it at Harry. Still hot from the simmering butter, he yelped incredulously as it hit his arm.

“Jesus!” he exclaimed, rubbing his forearm as he glared at Abby. “That fucking hurt!” he told her, examining his arm. If the spoon left a welt, he was going to be livid. He hated burn blisters. She’d probably find some way to pop it, too, because she was an evil bitch.

“Oh dear…” Abby mused with phony sympathy. “I hope it won’t ruin one of your disgusting tattoos,” she told him, retrieving a clean spoon from the drawer before resuming her cooking.

Harry scoffed, desperately wanting to put something cool on his arm. She’d never let him live it down, though. “The ladies love my tattoos,” he countered arrogantly.

“This one doesn’t,” Abby argued with an eye roll. She’d never admit it, but his tattoos weren’t terrible. She actually could almost like them, if they weren’t attached to such a nasty person. “I think they’re hideous. You’re going to look awful when you’re an old man, you know.”

“Like I give a shit what you think,” Harry snapped, jumping off the counter. “You’re not a lady, you’re a raging cunt.”

Abby abhorred being called a cunt. She could brush off almost any other name, but that one struck a chord with her. She knew the Brits could toss around the word as though it was a comma, but being half American, she found the word revolting. Her lips formed a thin line as she drew in a deep breath through her nose, forcing herself to remain level. As he turned to stomp out of the kitchen, Abby couldn’t help but try and get the last word in.

“It’s a good thing you lie to your fans,” she called out in a quiet voice. “I don’t think you’d be such a Casanova if they knew what a douchebag you truly are.”

Harry paused; almost content with letting Abby have the last word. But then he turned to face her, though her back remained turned to him. “Y’know, Abby… maybe people are douchebags around you because you bring it out in them. Think about that.”

He turned on his heel, nearly bumping into a bleary-eyed Jenna, making her way into the kitchen. She stopped; her gaze flickering between Harry and Abby. Her sleepy eyes widened at the sight of the two of them in the same room together.

“Are you… are you two getting along?” she asked with disbelief.

In unison, Harry and Abby scoffed loudly. “Absolutely not,” he spat out, shooting daggers at Abby’s back.

“Never going to happen,” Abby echoed.

Jenna rolled her eyes at the two of them. “Least you can agree on something,” she offered with a shrug. “Is there coffee?”

~*~*~*~

“You are high off your stupid ass if you actually think there was only room for Rose on that bloody door!”

“Of course there’s room for both! But it’s on water! It’s a matter of buoyancy, you moron!”

Mike let out a strangled sigh, pausing the movie that had been on for a short five minutes. “Is this honestly going to go on for the entire three hours?” he asked, sounding very much like a father scolding his two bratty children. “Because if it is, you can both go upstairs while Jenna and I enjoy the movie and the odd grope under the blanket. Your choice.”

“Yeah,” Jenna piped up. The bickering between Harry and Abby had gone on all day, and Jenna sounded exhausted. After he dropped the c-bomb and she shot back with the d-word, the two of them had managed to avoid each other for the rest of the morning. But when Harry stepped outside and caught Abby chain-smoking through a pack of Mayfairs, he took it upon himself to chastise her and list off the ramifications that came with smoking. She told him he’d likely get hepatitis from all of his ugly tattoos, which may have not been the most politically correct comeback, but being PC didn’t seem to be a concern for either of them.

“I want my husband to grab my tits under a blanket while we watch a bunch of people drown,” she continued, fluttering the large blanket that was covering the two of them for emphasis. “So if you don’t mind… shut the fuck up.”

Harry sighed, crossing his arms. “Fine,” he huffed, glancing at Abby. His feet were dangling off one part of the couch; Abby had selfishly taken the longer portion and was comfortably stretched out. He hated that they were delegated to share the sectional, just so Mike and Jenna could pretend they were in middle school again. “But just so we’re clear… Rose killed Jack.”

Abby lifted her head from the pillow, frowning at Harry. “The Atlantic killed Jack, Harry,” she corrected with a scoff. “And James Cameron killed–“

“Shut up!” Mike and Jenna yelped, scowling at their friends from across the room. Mike snapped his finger and pointed to the doorway threateningly, telling them without words to knock it off or scram.

“Yeah, shut up, Harry,” Abby echoed in a bratty tone, curling her arms around the pillow. She inched her body further down the sofa, ensuring she was as far from Harry as she could be while still being comfortable. She hated being so close to someone she despised so greatly.

“And Abby,” Mike reminded her, shooting each of them one more glare before he played the movie.

Abby rolled her eyes in response, exhaling loudly but obliged. Her friends were kind enough to let her stay with them – the least she could do was let them enjoy their movie and their foreplay. It would also be nice to not hear Harry’s gratingly irritating voice for the next three hours.

Harry shifted his position uncomfortably as the movie played on, finding it hard to find a cozy position on the short sofa. He glanced at Abby, envious of all of the room her legs had. He sighed loudly as he fidgeted, causing Abby to look up from her pillow at him.

“Stop moving,” she hissed quietly at him. Every time Harry shifted, or coughed, or annoyingly cleared his throat, Abby wanted to reach out and smack him. And because the couch was made for dolls, she easily could have. But that would have been considered disruptive, according to Mike and Jenna, so she refrained. For now.

“I’m trying,” he hissed back, sitting up straighter and resting his feet on the floor. He sighed again, tucking one leg under the other and pressing his hands against the seat of the sofa. As he shifted, his fingers brushed up against a lock of Abby’s hair, draped over the pillow. The touch startled him. Shit, her hair was soft. He looked down at his hand, unsure why he was allowing his fingers to tangle through her cashmere locks, why he wasn’t pulling his hand away. Didn’t he despise this girl?

He did. But he couldn’t deny her hair felt like satin and smelled like vanilla. Vanilla and coconut. Fuck. Oh, fuck. He let his hand linger for a moment longer before he snapped back to reality and pulled his hand away from Abby’s hair quickly, as though it was suddenly on fire. She felt the abrupt movement and sat up straighter, glaring at Harry.

“Were you playing with my hair?” she asked incredulously, tugging her locks over her shoulder and sneering at Harry.

“No!” Harry quickly denied, feeling his face turn red as Jenna and Mike untangled themselves from each other and looked at him curiously. “I wasn’t! Why would I… I mean, I wouldn’t…” he sputtered out, hating everything about this moment. Fuck Abby and her velvety soft, vanilla coconut hair. He cleared his throat.

“You’re flipping your hair around and taking up the whole damn couch,” Harry continued, praying he could rectify the situation. “I was just trying to get my little bit of a space back. So sorry,” he added sarcastically.

Abby furrowed her brow at Harry, watching as he dropped his gaze from her. His irritating smirk was gone; rather, an embarrassed scowl covered his face. Abby’s stomach dropped – he was playing with her hair. Hours after he called her a cunt, he found it acceptable to play with her hair. There was pompous, and then there was Harry.

“I know you think you’re a lady-killer,” Abby told him, quickly pleating her hair into a braid. “But remember, you said I wasn’t a lady…” She trailed off, raising an eyebrow at him, reminding him of the c-bomb. “Don’t touch me again,” she said flatly, glaring at Harry for a beat longer before tugging her pillow even further from him, ensuring her hair was well out of his reach.

Harry exhaled softly. “Sorry,” he muttered instinctively, wincing as he apologised. Now it was obvious he was guilty. “Can we just watch this fucking movie?” he asked loudly, tucking into the corner of the couch and trying not to think about how he could still feel Abby’s stupid hair between his fingers. This was bad. Really bad.

~*~*~*~

“Mike!” Jenna giggled mid-way through the movie. “Stop!”

Abby made a face in her friend’s direction, glaring at the two of them. It was hard to tell what was going on under the blanket, but she only prayed Mike’s pants were still on. Maybe it could be considered sweet that the couple was still passionate after being together for nearly eighteen years, but passion was only sweet behind closed doors. “Yeah, Mike,” she echoed. “Stop. Please.”

“Seriously,” Harry agreed, tossing a throw pillow at his friends. “We don’t need to hear Mike rocking the same moves he’s been using since nineteen-ninety-seven.”

Despite her general dislike for Harry and his already bloated head, Abby had to snicker. It was a decent burn, and any time Mike was on the receiving end of an insult, Abby couldn’t help but appreciate it. Still, she wished Harry wasn’t on the giving end of the taunt. Laughing at his jokes was not the way to deflate his massive ego.

“Maybe I like the old moves!” Jenna retorted. “I promise, I do,” she assured her husband.

Abby stretched her legs over the arm of the couch, her distance from Harry requiring her legs to be bent uncomfortably. “Maybe you need new moves too, then,” she suggested, her voice dull.

Jenna picked up the pillow Harry had tossed, throwing it back at Abby. “Like you’re one to give advice on moves,” she laughed teasingly, her cheeky smirk quickly seguing into a sheepish smile as she met Abby’s glare. Abby’s sex life had been stalled all year; she didn’t need the reminder from Jenna in front of Harry.

Mike and Harry. No, just Mike. Not Harry. Why would she care if Harry knew the last time she had sex was when there was still snow on the ground, and the gentleman had taken two movies before he’d even held her hand, then thrusted for a grand total of ninety seconds before scurrying to the bathroom and finishing up on his own? She didn’t care. And if it got brought up, she would happily tell Harry that after she fell asleep with a preheated oven, the Minute Man’s mother saw it prudent to call her twenty-something year old son at seven in the morning to find out where he was. She could easily tell him all of that. No shame. But she wouldn’t, of course. It wasn’t his business.

“Anyway!” Jenna announced, a giggle still evident in her voice. “Let’s go learn some new moves,” she said to Mike, wiggling her eyebrows at her husband as she jumped up, adjusting her clothes. Abby was relieved she didn’t get a flash of boob.

Mike jumped up after his wife, grinning like a ten year old who just found his dad’s Playboy. “Don’t have to tell me twice!” he enthused, wiggling his eyebrows at Harry before palming his wife’s bottom and chasing her out of the living room.

Harry focused on the movie, avoiding Abby’s eyes. He didn’t know about her, but it was incredibly awkward sitting next to a girl he loathed, yet wanted to touch, while his friends were a floor away, practising how to make babies. The only way it could get more awkward would be…

Oh, right. The drawing scene.

Abruptly, Harry stood up. “I’m getting a drink,” he announced, stepping out of the living room. On a surprising second thought, he stuck his head back into the room. “Erm… do you need one?” he asked awkwardly. It was only polite, and he wasn’t lazy.

Stunned, it took Abby a moment to respond to Harry’s offering. “Uhm… sure…” she answered. “Thank you…” she added slowly, her bewilderment over his offer apparent. She felt a bit guilty, knowing she wouldn’t have done the same if she got up to get herself a drink.

Harry nodded; disappearing into the kitchen and quickly filling two glasses with water. He wasn’t sure why he offered to get Abby and drink, and why, when he returned to the living room, he resumed sitting in his uncomfortable corner spot, versus setting into the empty chair Mike and Jenna had vacated. He didn’t want to think about it. He thrust Abby’s drink into her hands, his annoyance at his manners and sitting position causing his offering to be more aggressive than necessary.

“Tha – oh,” Abby began, frowning as Harry all but spilled her drink onto her lap. Did he really just offer to get her a drink just so he could be a jerk and spill it on her? She glared at him, though he replied with a wince, not a glare of his own.

“That wasn’t on purpose,” he quickly advised her, settling back into the sofa. “If I was going to spill a drink on you, it would be something that would stain… something sticky. Like a red wine, maybe,” he told her, a chuckle finding his lips. He realised, as he laughed, he hadn’t meant the comment to be malicious. In fact, if he let himself believe it, his words could be considered flirtation.

“Uhm… duly noted…” Abby mused curiously, Harry’s comment uncomfortably hanging in the air. She wouldn’t let herself think that way – it was ludicrous, to put it lightly – but if she didn’t know any better, she would think the arrogant douchebag sitting beside her was flirting with her. She scoffed to herself, taking a sip of the tepid water. Being a notch in Harry Styles’ bedpost was the last thing in the world she would ever – ever – be.

Notes