Turquoise

For the few days following Hairgate, Abby was able to avoid Harry. She wasn’t trying to; it just so happened that she wanted to stay hidden in her room for nearly all hours of the day and not show her face to anyone in the house. Not to mention, Harry’s downtime seemed to come to a halt, as he was busy preparing for the release of the band’s latest album and the rush of promotions that went along with it. He was leaving early and coming in late, and Abby couldn’t help but wonder if the amount of work he pushed himself to do was healthy. Then she forced the thought from her mind – why did she care about Harry’s health? She was supposed to be focusing on her own health, not that of someone she didn’t even like.

The afternoon of the ninth, the house was quiet. Mike and Jenna had a standing order date night – an uninspired dinner and a movie, but they seemed to looked forward to it – and Harry had disappeared to the studio before the sun was even up. Relieved to finally have time to herself, Abby poured herself a full glass of merlot, tied an apron around her waist and cranked the kitchen radio – though she’d be a bit more cautious about her singing this time around. She gently placed her cookbook on the counter, a scrapbook of recipes from her grandmother that was on the brink of falling apart. For years, she’d been meaning to preserve the book, have it typed and professionally bound, but her busy lifestyle didn’t leave much time for any of the things she wanted to do. Maybe now she could.

She sipped her wine, careful to not spill as she thumbed through the book, searching for the recipe she had in mind. Midway through, she found it, and placed a canister on top of the pages to stop it from flipping shut. She hummed to herself, thankful for a peaceful afternoon in the kitchen, while she organised her supplies.

To say Harry was in a miserable mood would be an understatement, and he could hardly keep his eyes open as he drove back to Mike and Jenna’s from the studio. The day hadn’t gone as planned – through no fault of anyone’s, just par for the course when dealing with four men on the brink of exhaustion trying to ensure they put their best foot forward for their final performances. They’d hoped to be done by early evening; now, it was well past supper time and everyone’s nerves were shot. He didn’t even bother to bid anyone farewell as he left, certain even a simple goodbye would come out sounding hostile.

He pulled into the driveway, sighing when he saw Abby’s car parked in the same spot it’d been since he’d arrived days earlier. She clearly had nothing better to do than sit around her friend’s house, he thought bitterly. He wished she could find something to entertain herself with – it would make it easier for him to forget about her. Her hair was no longer the number one thought – she and Jenna had a late night soak in the hot-tub the night before, and seeing her in a bikini had sent his mind into a tizzy. It wasn’t fair – such a hot body on such a miserable woman. She’d hardly said two words to him since he brought her a glass of water during Titanic. She mumbled a thank you (sort of), drank the water, watched the movie and silently went to bed. He assumed she was still angry he’d spilled the water on her, which he could see if it had been intentional. It hadn’t been.

With a loud sigh bordering on a groan, Harry dragged his weary self into the house. He didn’t bother shouting a greeting – the loud music coming from the kitchen made it obvious where Abby was. He sighed again – he was hungry. Shrugging off his coat, he stomped down the hall into the kitchen.

“What is this song?” he grumbled, making his mood widely apparent as he huffed into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge.

Abby turned at the sound of his voice, not startled but annoyed. He was such a whiny brat. If Harry was in a bad mood, apparently everyone had to be in a bad mood as well. She rolled her eyes but silently turned back to the stove, ignoring his mood.

Harry scowled at Abby’s back, wishing her hair was pulled back and not draped over her shoulders like a silky, vanilla scented curtain of Hell. No, that would be bad because of the tight little tank top she decided was appropriate chef’s attire. God. Fuck her. Not literally, of course.

“Kind of gross that you’re cooking with your hair down,” he commented instead, sticking his head in the fridge. He rooted around, moving leftovers aside as he searched for something quick, easy and delicious.

Abby blew out a sigh, closing her eyes briefly. “You don’t have to eat it,” she reminded him in a low voice, though refraining from reminding him that, aside from a piece each for her and Jenna, Harry and Mike had devoured her baklava. Abby wouldn’t have been surprised if Harry had even licked the pan.

Harry glanced around the door at Abby and, for a brief moment, wondered what she was concocting this time. He’d rudely called her baklava junk, but it was far from it. If he spent much more time at the Parkes’ house with Abby at the helm of the kitchen, it wouldn’t be long before he wouldn’t be able to squeeze into his trademark skinnies. He sighed, turning back to the fridge. If it wasn’t ready now, he didn’t want it.

He grabbed a container of yogurt, wondering who thought it was a good idea to buy plain. He pawed through the freezer, finding a bag of frozen berries tucked against a frozen pizza, which also would have been tasty, but would take too long. He dumped a generous amount of berries into the yogurt before grabbing a spoon from the drawer.

“What is it, anyway?” Harry asked, the medley of smells piquing his interest, and hunger. Hair or no hair, he’d eat some. He leaned against the counter, stirring his yogurt before shoveling a massive spoonful into his hungry mouth.

He really was a baby – just give him some food and his mood instantly changed. Still, his comment prompted another eye roll from Abby, who ran the rolling pin a few more times over the dough before glancing at Harry.

“It’s called – hey, what are you eating?!” she suddenly yelped, snatching the yogurt container from Harry’s stunned hands. She peered into the container, seeing the yogurt for her recipe ruined with his berries. “Harry!”

“What the fuck!” he exclaimed, flabbergasted by Abby’s outrageous reaction to his snack. “I was eating that!”

Abby gestured madly to the half-cooked meal strewn about the countertops. “It was for the rice!” she shouted at him. “You didn’t even ask! Do you ever think about anyone but yourself?” She angrily threw the container upside-down in the sink before crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

“Apparently not!” Harry shouted back, watching her throw the yogurt into the sink. “That’s fucking wasteful; I could have finished it, y’know,” he added indignantly.

“You shouldn’t have even started it!” Abby exclaimed, huffing to the stove and flicking off the burner. “Guess I don’t need that going anymore,” she snapped, watching the boiling bubbles around the rice dissipate. She blew out a disappointed sigh before taking the entire pot, hot water, rice and all and shoved it into the sink. The hot pot caused the yogurt to gurgle and sizzle against the stainless steel, the boiled water and half-cooked rice pooling over the lid.

He couldn’t help himself. “Guess they’re mixed now,” Harry deadpanned, biting the inside of his cheeks to keep from laughing at his own joke and Abby’s hilarious meltdown.

“You are unbelievable,” Abby seethed, her fists instinctively clenching. Rather than committing a felony and knocking Harry out, she grabbed the flat dough – dough that she’d manage to make perfectly – and crumpled it into ball before tromping across the kitchen and dunking the dough into the garbage can. She was well aware that it was an overreaction, but she was so angry with Harry, she didn’t care. She looked at Harry, a glare across her face.

“Sorry… did you want that, too?” she retorted scornfully before stomping out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

“Jeez…” Harry muttered under his breath as her bedroom door slammed. He realised he actually felt remorse over ruining Abby’s meal. Judging by the disaster she had left in the kitchen, she’d been working hard, and she seemed genuinely upset over his faux pas. Like the water incident from earlier in the week, he hadn’t intended on upsetting Abby. He just seemed to be good at it.

He let out a sigh, spinning in a slow circle as he surveyed the mess in the kitchen. He supposed the least he could do would be clean it up. Fuck. He hated cleaning kitchens.

~*~*~*~

Abby curled up in her bed, erratically scrolling through real estate listings on her phone. She hadn’t been in a hurry to buy her next home until now. If she had been in a rational frame of mind, she would have remembered that Harry wouldn’t be staying with the Parkes for long, and capriciously jumping into a house purchase wasn’t necessary. But Abby was livid, and buying a house seemed to be the only solution. She wondered how much she could e-transfer.

Knock… knock.

Abby jumped suddenly at the sound of a slow, quiet knock on her bedroom door. Knowing Mike and Jenna were still out, it could only be Harry. She let out a sigh; deciding to ignore him as she turned back to her phone.

Knock.

“Abby,” Harry stated with a sigh of his own. It was difficult enough to try and eat crow; doing it on the wrong side of a closed door was humiliating. “Look, I… I’ve gone and…” He groaned exasperatedly. “Can’t you just open the fucking door?”

Hearing his loud sigh and unnecessary curse, Abby didn’t answer. She didn’t understand why he would huff and puff like an overgrown child when he came to her bedroom on his own accord. She didn’t have to open it, and she wasn’t going to.

Harry knocked again; this time more aggressively. “Stop being a baby and just open the damn door,” he demanded, refraining from stomping his feet. He was doing something nice for someone unbearable; he was going to get recognition.

“No, thank you,” Abby replied flatly. Just go away, she silently added, but she knew if she voiced her plea, Harry would do the exact opposite, because he was an annoying jerk put on the Earth – or at least, in the Parkes’ house – just to make her life miserable.

Harry grimaced. This girl got on his last nerves. Against his better judgment, he twisted the knob and pushed open the door, knowing very well he could die. Abby didn’t look up from her phone as he crossed the room, but if she had, she’d have noticed the plate of grilled cheese sandwiches in his hand. After a moment, she noticed the smell, and looked up at Harry as he sat on the arm of the chair under the window.

Seeing Abby eye the plate of sandwiches, Harry followed her gaze, wincing sheepishly as he suddenly felt like a massive idiot, as though the sandwiches were somehow supposed to be better than the full-course meal she’d been preparing. Still, she saw them now. He had to explain.

“I… I mean, I made one for me, so…” he shrugged offhandedly, setting the plate on the edge of the bed. Abby looked at him for a moment before turning back to her phone, apparently not caring about Harry’s humdrum sandwiches. He sighed again; tucking his tail between his legs.

“Shit… look… sorry,” he sighed out defensively, his words not sounding as sincere as he’d hoped they would. “I should have asked you… I mean, it’s not like anyone buys plain yogurt ‘cause it’s good, right?

Abby, while taken aback by the gesture, refused to let it show. Instead, she kept her eyes on her phone, not knowing what she was even looking at, before muttering “white bread is bad for you.”

Harry groaned loudly at her comment. He knew she wouldn’t easily accept his apology, but this was ridiculous – and more than a little embarrassing. “I’m trying to do something nice here, Abby,” Harry snapped. “Can’t you just politely accept the sandwich like a fucking normal person would?”

“Doing something nice after doing something mean completely negates the niceness,” Abby pointed out, ignoring his remark about her being a normal person and nudging the plate away. “You do something nice because you want to be nice, not because you’re trying to make up for being a dickhead.”

He watched as Abby rejected the plate and shook his head. If she wasn’t going to eat it, he would. Harry reached out and took half of the sandwich, angrily biting into it. “I didn’t mean to be a dickhead,” he shot back.

“Just comes naturally, yeah?” Abby asked, gesturing to the sandwich in his hand. “What kind of not dickhead makes someone else a sandwich and then eats half of it?” she wondered curtly. She didn’t want the sandwich – she didn’t want to accept his apologies or attempt at decency – but it was still rather rude of him to chow down on the sandwich he brought for her.

“A hungry one,” he commented, his mouth full.

She rolled her eyes and snatched up the other half of the sandwich, taking a big bite just so he couldn’t. Jesus, it was good. Even lukewarm, the cheese was still creamy, and Abby could taste more than just cheddar. Cream cheese, maybe, with parmesan sprinkled on the heavenly white bread, soaked in butter. Fuck him and his refined carbs.

“Good?” Harry asked, smothering a smirk. He knew it was. He rested his feet against her bed, crossing his arms boastfully. She might be able to whip up the best baklava he’d ever tasted, but she couldn’t hold a candle to his grilled cheesing.

Abby shrugged disdainfully. “It would be better on sourdough…” she commented, wanting to smack the smirk right off of his perfectly angled jaw. Instead, she leaned over and pushed his feet off her bed, causing him to lose his balance on the arm of the chair. Unfortunately, he didn’t fall.

“Oh, sod off,” said Harry exasperatedly, after he regained his balance. “Everyone knows you make grilled cheese with white bread, nothing else. Is this how you say thank you?” he wondered with a shake of his head.

“You shouldn’t expect thanks for doing something nice,” Abby reminded Harry. “You do it out of the goodness of your heart.”

“I thought I did it because I was trying to make up for being a dickhead,” Harry countered cheekily, the smug grin remaining on his face.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” Abby sighed, taking another bite and wishing his sassy smile wasn’t so dimpled.

Harry scoffed. “Don’t worry, doll,” he advised, “you’re right up there, too,” he told her, intending on the term of endearment to sound patronizing, not affectionate. It didn’t. He reminded himself to never call her that again. It sounded too nice, too… nice.

Abby shrugged, taking another bite and reminding herself to look almost nauseated, not on the brink of a food orgasm. “And yet here you sit… in my bedroom, bringing me supper because I’m so fucking annoying,” Abby mused sarcastically.

“Even though I brought you a sandwich, it doesn’t make you any less annoying,” Harry pointed out. “Your little comments about sourdough make you more annoying, really,” he added with a frown. It pained him, a smidge, that she didn’t fall over herself raving about the best sandwich of her life.

“It’s the truth," Abby reminded him. “Though, I suppose since all I know how to cook is junk, I wouldn’t know.”

“Ohh, see, I was worried that wasn’t going to be a thing,” Harry countered facetiously. “Good. Good to know. You know what you owe me now?”

Abby stared at him, dumbfounded. “Like fuck I owe you anything,” she spat out, horrified at the very idea. “You are such a disgusting slut! I know you’re used to flashing that dimpled grin and getting whatever, and whoever, you want, but you’re fucking crazy if you think I’m going to swoon over some sodden, greasy sandwich!”

Harry laughed loudly at Abby’s overreaction to his comment. “You're not supposed to swoon over it; you're supposed to eat it. Which you did,” he reminded her. “And what comes after supper…” he asked, his voice slowly quizzical as though he was talking to a child. Without waiting for an answer, he clapped his hands together once. “Dessert!” He jerked his thumb towards the door. “Let’s go.”

The dumbfounded look remained on Abby’s face, though she was less surprised when she thought he was suggesting sex. Go? Out? Together? They didn’t even like each other! Abby began shaking her head at Harry, as he replied by nodding his head vigorously at her.

Harry, too, was bewildered he asked Abby out – no, not out. Outside of the house. She annoyed him to the point of insanity, and he wasn’t sure why he wanted to spend more time with her. He knew exactly what would happen if they were seen together. The tabloids would fall over themselves trying to paint the perfect picture of the new romance. The fans would obsess over the two poster-children of pop culture suddenly spending time with one another. But selfishly, with an album release on the horizon, Harry knew the tongue wagging that would occur as soon as he was out with Abby would help sales. He wasn’t stupid enough to tell her that, though.

Also, the bakery just a few blocks over had amazing scones.

“Yep,” he told her, standing up. “Put on a jumper and let’s go. I’ll drive, and you can buy,” he suggested cockily – though he wouldn’t have minded if she didn’t put on a sweater. Fuck that tank top.

Abby raised an eyebrow at Harry, though obliging as she stood up and stalked to her closet. She didn’t know what was compelling her to listen to him. She had her fill of white grains for the day. She also didn’t know what compelled her to put on a too-tight, too-itchy sweater that she knew made her boobs look good, instead of a comfy, rainy day hoodie, but she tugged it on, flipping her hair out of the neck hole as she glared at Harry.

“Fine,” she agreed huffily. “Ten pounds, max. I’m unemployed,” she reminded him, though her savings and residuals meant money would never have to be an object. Still, she wasn’t about to become Harry Styles’ sugar momma.

Harry snickered as Abby flounced out of the room in front of him. “Sure,” he agreed, his eyes on her back. Forget about the tank top… fuck that sweater.

Notes