Ladybug [h.s.]

3

Delilah

~~~~~~~~

"Need me to clean up after you, huh?" I mutter angrily, swiping at the crumbs on the counter before wadding up the paper towel in my fist and throwing it into the trash. It bounces off of the side mockingly, finding a home on the ground beside the plastic bag.

"What was that, Del?" My father's voice trails into the kitchen over the sound of him shuffling on his suit jacket.

With a huff, I pick up the garbage and pitch it into the bin, letting my eyes roll in frustration. "Nothing, Daddy, just cleaning up breakfast."

I walk back out to the dining room just in time to watch him swing a bag onto his arm. It bounces gracelessly off of his back, but he pays it no mind, running a hand through his hair to make sure it's laying just how he likes. When our eyes meet, a smile spreads across his face, warm tips of summer waves rolling into the shore.

"I'm heading out, cinnamon." He strides the few feet between us, reaching up to straighten out my nurse's cap while I straighten out his tie. "If you beat me home, tell your mother to put on dinner asap, my stomach's already grumblin'."

I laugh lightly, leaning into his chest as he presses a kiss against the side of my head. "Have a good day at work."

With a hushed goodbye, I watch him sneak out of the doorway, letting it close quietly behind him to not wake up Mom. I follow almost immediately behind him to get to the hospital on time, sinking into the leather seats of my Bel Air and relishing in the few moments of relaxation before the week begins. Mondays always seem to be the busiest, as if the start of the week sends an influx of chaos through the front doors.

Thankfully, the chaos means less time to think; to dwell on last weekend. Which seems to be all I wanted to do for a week now. Replaying the pompous, arrogant tone rushing along the curve of my earlobe. The underlying meaning behind his words. The way I could have watched the cassette tape flip and rewind behind his eyes as my name left his lips.

Harry Styles.

Familiar past; divergent paths in the woods. His hard shell grew and formed over the boy I used to know, turning him into someone I wanted nothing to do with. We were as good as enemies; strangers with a likeness. Two parts of a broken down car; flat tire, dislodged hub cap. Cracked windshield, shattered rear mirror.

I hadn't seen him in years; so many, that I wouldn't have been very surprised if he'd been found dead in a ditch somewhere. But, his reputation preceded him, just like it does for everyone else in this god awful town. A single glance of the leather painting strewn across his back, or the grease curled around his hair in ringlet waves, and he was labeled. Greaser. Trouble. I knew he wasn't dangerous, but he did his best to come off that way.

I couldn't believe him; couldn't believe his outright audacity, the way he threw his spiderweb toward me, hoping for any ounce of the silk to trap me inside of his web. Cruel flattery. Luring me to my death; luring me to his bed. But then I saw the vacancy. Flickering motel sign - twenty-six dollars a night. A jar with holes poked through the lid to let the lightning bugs drift into the night sky. Comatose eyes, deep pits of freefall, clouded by a ring of color. I realized he didn't recognize me. Maybe because it'd been so many years, maybe because he didn't expect to see me at The Station, maybe because he forgot I ever existed. A figment of his childhood.

Something about that made it worse.

I was a piece of meat; a slab of woman. Another broad to find, and woo, and capture. Another carve into a wooden bedpost. I was nothing more than another player in his game, and I was not about to let him win.