Appeal Denied

2014-NYC-02: Probative

December 21, 2014

Saturday Night Live was funny, and I spent the evening laughing at the awkwardness of my one night stand as he stood behind the sofa in the sketch, his leg up on the back, pretending to be a member of the dance squad. The sunglasses were really over the top, plus that hat. I rolled my eyes when I saw it. My gaze strayed to Liam, and I was ashamed to think that I had ever considered him the cute one with Harry around.

The next morning found me putting together what I call Blessing Bottles. It's quite the process. For the holiday season, I invested in two dozen BPA-free water bottles, plus a variety of materials to put in the bottles. Half of the bottles got tampons and sanitary napkins. All of the bottles would include sunscreen, lotion, lip balm, and trail mix packets. This time I decided to add some bandaids. My counter was covered with the items, arranged for an assembly line.

When my phone rang, the number showed as blocked. Weird. That's why I didn't answer it, choosing to allow it to go to voicemail as I combed my hair, wet from my shower, while I contemplated the task set before me.

Hearing the tone for messages, I grabbed my phone. Pressing play, I heard his accented voice, "Hi. It's Harry. From England. I know it's early, but would you like breakfast? I can bring it to you. I'll call back in five minutes so you can decide if you want to answer."

My stomach, upon hearing his voice, twisted like the Phoenix roller coaster at Knoebel's. Which should have been a clear sign that I should not answer when he called back. Instead, I waited, impatiently biting my lip and berating myself for giving him my phone number. Attempting to focus on the task proved impossible, as my ear was tuned for the ringtone to play with his return call. The five minute mark ticked by, and when ten minutes had passed, I felt like Theo during the Ten Minute Marshmallow test. (Go ahead. Google it. You'll laugh. Especially if you start it at the 2:45 mark.)

Giving up, I headed for the kitchen, prepared to scramble some eggs. Nearly the instant the pan was on the burner, the eggs out of the fridge, my phone rang. Turning off the burner, I rushed to the device, breathing hard since I'd left it in the bedroom. Then I just stood there, watching it ring. What the hell was I thinking? He was a client for crying out loud. A famous one who shouldn't have anything to do with me, nor I with him.

Just as the phone stopped ringing, I felt panic rise up. Almost immediately, my ringtone started again, and I breathed a sigh of relief, snatching the device and swiping my finger frantically across the bar to answer. It was one of those times when the damn thing just wouldn't swipe, and it took me centuries to finally say, "Hello?"

I don't think I imagined the sound of air rushing through his lungs at my greeting. "You didn't answer, and I thought maybe I had waited too long. Sorry. I dozed a bit. But now you've answered. Does that mean you want breakfast?"

My cheeks hurt from the smile on my face, and my head was bobbing like an apple on Halloween. Luckily he couldn't see me, so I played it cool. "Oh, I suppose I could eat," I mumbled, and my stomach betrayed me by loudly growling.

His laughter across the cellular towers warmed me, and I wanted to see him again desperately. To view that crinkle by his eyes and his ten-mile deep dimple. "Do you mind if I bring food over? Eating out for me is not always the best option. Fans, you know."

"Oh," I'd replied, "I hadn't thought about them." There had been a few moments of concern about inviting him over, but less about my safety and more about someone like him seeing my tiny hole in the wall apartment with its second-hand furniture. "Sure," I finally agreed, my nerves kicking up at the thought of him in my one bedroom -- emphasis on bedroom. "I'm at 226 E. 85th Street, Apartment 2A. It's a walk-up. I hope that's okay."