Cruel Summer | Harry Styles

One: Beginnings

May 16th

Before Della opened her eyes, she felt the headache. It was a dull throbbing most intense around her eyes but spread over every inch of her head. Her mouth was dry, the wine from the night before was stained on her tongue, and her favorite wine's signature dye was steeped into the skin of her bottom lip.

She groaned and ran her hands over her eyes and then down her face. She regretted the amount she drank the night before instantly, but it was necessary. For the first time in four weeks, her and her ex stayed in together on a Saturday night—and not by choice.

The showers hadn't started until five—an hour before Della was supposed to be at the Chelsea bar where she would be meeting her friends—but didn't show any signs of stopping. The cancellation text came in an hour later and unfortunately, Josh had gotten one similar.

When she walked out of the once shared bedroom, she saw him laying on the pull out couch, watching some program she had never seen before.

"You're not going out?" She asked from her spot a few feet behind him.

He looked over towards the windows across the flat next to the small kitchen. "Do you see the rain?"

"Well, I'm not either."

"So?"

"So, we haven't exactly been on the best of terms lately and we've been pretty good at not being around one another on the weekends..."

"Lately?" The attitude dripped from his voice. "Don't be a child, Della. We'll survive one night."

"Maybe you should use this night off to finally look for a new place." She mumbled as she moved to the kitchen.

"I don't know how many times I've told you: I am looking. It's not the easiest thing to do."

"Well, it's not that hard—and it shouldn't take as long as it has. You really expect me to believe that you've been looking all this time and still haven't found anything?"

She heard Josh heave a sigh while she tossed a packet of popcorn into the microwave.

"I don't really think you're one to have an attitude when it's your fault we're in this mess."

"You came to London on your own."

"Because I thought you still loved me." He had finally turned around to look at her.

"Well, I can't help that you're an idiot." Della mumbled before grabbing a bottle of wine from the rack, her half popped popcorn and walking back into the bedroom.

She spent the night mostly holed up in her room, drinking straight from the bottle and texting back and forth with her mom.

You need to get out of that apartment. Take a vacation. Be on your own the way you were supposed to.

I wouldn't mind a vacation.

You should talk to mémère about where she lived and maybe take a small trip there. You know she loves to talk about it.

Della toyed with the idea of France, and then instead of calling her grandmother, started researching the different regions and how much it would cost to stay where. She knew where her grandmother was from and knew how much she still identified with the place she grew up, despite having lived in the United States for over forty years.

Her grandmother always talked about taking her and her sister there, in order to get them in touch with their roots, as she called it. Della's grandpa always chimed in that half of their roots were in Ireland, and his wife always pretended not to hear him.