PASSERBY, harry styles

vii. something so precious about this

real life!

         There are a lot of things I know, or I'm sure of, or I'm pretty close to understanding. Like, I know the moon exists, I'm sure that it's miles away, and I'm pretty close to understanding its purpose. Or I know my sister's an ass, I'm sure I'd be okay with never seeing her again, and I'm pretty close to understanding why she gets to live out her happily ever after with my ex-boyfriend while I'm only scraping by with my "music thing," as she says.

         Right now I know I'm in Harry Styles' studio, I'm sure he's hanging on to my every word, and I'm pretty close to understanding why he wants me here and why we're all alone. There's not much to complain about—he's an easy-going guy with corny jokes and an ear for music like almost no other—but it's all a bit surreal, and I've never been so ready to get back to my quiet little home studio.

"I think we should layer some harmonies right here," I tell him, pressing play and revelling in his silky voice.

"Yeah, yeah. Like, la la da," he sings. He seems deep in thought, with his brows furrowed, his chin resting in his palm, and his gaze on me as he works the melody out under his breath. If there's one thing to learn about this man, it's his intensity. There's nothing more intense than a British man with an endless rasp, and it gets disastrous when you sprinkle a singing voice like that on top. Everything he says, everything he does—I feel it all, whether I want to or not.

"Exactly like that. Just layer it with some variations here and there. It'll bring it all together," I say, finally feeling more grounded than I did when I first stepped in here. I'm no longer falling victim to that dreaded mouth-running, but it's still all a bit daunting to sit in a room filled with booming speakers, countless guitars, and a mixer built for the gods. There's a small victory in Harry being a smooth enough talker to make this all easier.

The snippet comes to a close, and Harry jumps from his seat. "And then we go into the best part!" he shouts and strums his air guitar.

"False. The best part is that beginning. The little lies on my skin part."

He actually looks shocked—like I'd just wet willied him for the first time in in 10 years, or I'd poured a bucket of ice-cold water down his pants, or I'd told him Stevie Nicks was the worst musician on the planet—and I almost laugh. "Kavi, love, you're mental."

"You say this then it's all 'Kavi, you're so talented.' Or 'Kavi, you're magic.' Pick a side."

Harry laughs at this, playfully launching his guitar pick at me. Even the guitar pick feels far too expensive to be within even five feet of me. "My side"—he pauses dramatically—"is that your music is so great because you're mental."

        Leave it to this man.

"You remind me of my grandpa."

His nose wrinkles. "Are you . . . calling me old?"

"Yes," I say, nodding.

"I'll take it as a compliment. An old soul, if you will."

"Sure." I shrug. "Just feel lucky I didn't say my aunt."

"I love aunts," he protests, frowning. "Why not your aunt?"

What a loaded question. There's nothing like an off-the-rocker Caribbean aunt with nothing on her mind but knitting, cooking, and taking care of her nieces and nephews. She'll yell, kick, and scream before she ever admits she's wrong, but she'll love with the ferocity of a thousand stinging fire ants. "She's crazy," I decide to say. And I think that's enough to sum up the woman that is Lynette Harris.