ASSUMPTIONS [H.S.]

chapter 50

Amber Easton

I never really knew what stage fright meant until I started touring with Harry.

If somebody would see my recent Google search history, they'd be astonished to see how much I've looked into the topic, yet haven't found any working solutions.

With the incredible feeling of 11 shows played all over the continent, I've realized that the anxiety only gets worse the more shows I play at.

It's truly a love-hate relationship because I absolutely thrive on the feeling after each show. With the mix of relief and lust rushing through my bones, so much joy always finds me when the whole band gathers backstage a bit after the show, and we all have random talks about such weird topics, yet we always find ourselves laughing until we can't breathe anymore.

"You know, I never received an answer from you on a particular matter." Harry's voice makes me glance in the reflection of my mirror, and watch him sit on my dressing room's couch with one of his legs crossed over his knee in a triangle shape.

"What?" I confusedly mumble, focusing on the task at hand. The large lightbulbs on the dressing room's wall display the perfect amount of light for me to apply my blush to look perfect on stage.

"Does it work?" He asks, and it takes me a while to understand he's talking about my manifestation journal. In fact, he's looking through the freshly-inked pages of it.

I'm immediately up on my feet and rushing to snatch it out of his hand, but he hides it behind his back in a way that's impossible for me to grab.

A sly smile lingers on his face when he insists, "Tell me. Does your manifestation work?"

Suddenly, I feel as though I don't need to apply blush because my face heats up when I think of all the embarrassing sentences I've scribbled on the off-white paper.

He looks at me with eyes full of hope, yet a grin imprinted with entertainment. I scrunch my lips up in thought to tease him a little.

To be fair, most of the problems I've manifested have somehow resolved themselves on their own.

For starters, the creepy texts have stopped. It's a bittersweet feeling, though. I'm glad it's over but saddened the police never found out who broke into my now-under-construction apartment. Apparently, they could've been charged with blackmail, extortion, and property damage.

The internet's gone wild multiple times over the past week, and I haven't even done a single thing.

I don't know if I should be worried or not about the fact Brandon went to the media and changed the narrative to get me out of this shit. I remember the moment I was ready to post an apology video on the internet, but received a call from my team, announcing what he's done. I remember the confusion I felt instead of relief.

In the back of my mind, something keeps me uneasy about how out-of-the-blue it was because I never thought a masochist like him was able to feel any emotion. Either he's feeling guilty, or I should watch my back.

Even though everything's been swept under the rug, nobody besides my loved ones knows what actually went down, so there have been times when the crew or my team have aimed defensive side-glances at me on the previous shows on tour. Therefore, I've been hanging out in my dressing room more than I usually would.

I think Harry's felt the snide looks as well, so he's started to keep company in my dressing room until the very minute he has to go to his own stylists before going on stage.

"Well..." I quickly snatch the notebook out of his hand. "The short answer is 'yes'".

"Yeah?" He smiles, his thumb nervously fiddling with his rings. "I might have to try it out."