Toxic (Harry Styles)

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Everybody knows life's all about creating memories, about living for the moment so even if things don't turn out the way you want them to or don't turn out into the ideal, you can't always look back and say you had a fantastic time, creating that moment and being with that person.

"Beer or mix?" Harry asks from the kitchen. I can see him peering into the refrigerator, waiting for my answer, through the island wall window, with the shutters pushed aside.

"Uh, beer's fine," I answer hesitantly when he glances my way. He pulls out the brown, glass bottle along with another one for himself. He slides the alcohol across the granite, but he stays on the kitchen side, gazing at me emotionally. I'm aware that his eyes never leave my body, as I twist the cap on the beer, and take a small sip. The initial swallow burns, since I hardly drink. He notices the grimace on my face, and grins, drinking his own beer. The second sip wasn't as bad, as my body grows use to the burn.

Right now, I'm in Harry's house. I was worried when we pulled up because we weren't at a restaurant. He told me that his friend found a recipe for spaghetti and thought he would try to make it for the first time. He also said that he wasn't the best cook, and if it didn't work out, we'd order take away.  I mentally tell myself to have a little faith that he wouldn't poison me.

He turns back to the stove where the water is boiling, and adds the noodles. I stifle a chuckle; watch him awkwardly push down the noodle with the palm of his hand.

I examine his back muscle, tensing and relaxing when he moves. His white shirt makes it easy to see every crease, every small tattoo, and the top of his jeans. My eyes move up to his neck, where I notice a small cut at the nape.

When Harry left my house yesterday, he was covered in blood; on his face, hands, clothes, but he never told me what happened. When he picked me up at eight─ right on time ─my dad was at work, so he didn't witness the small cuts on Harry's knuckles, the knick about his eyebrow, and his sore lips. I'm afraid to ask him what really happened. I'd rather just assume that he has a bad fall, but I know that's not possible. Harry is always sure about everything; footsteps, words, etcetera, etcetera. I know that if I'm told the truth, I won't like it, so I kept my mouth shut. And I growing more curious the more I find cuts, bruises, and marks. Finally, I gave in.

"When are you going to tell me what the hell happened to your face?"

When Harry stiffens, I thought I may have come off a bit too pushy, and I know he doesn't like that, Harry doesn't face, and he keeps watch over the food, occasionally stirring. "It was nothing," he answers simply.

"It doesn't seem like nothing. Did you get into a fight?"

"And if I did?" He finally looks at me. His grin is long gone, and now a thin line takes it place. He's measuring my reaction with his eyes, I can tell. Harry probably expects me to run for the hills─ though I wouldn't get far before he catches me.

"Who was it?" To his surprise, and mine, I'm still standing behind the island, not really moving anything but my lips.

"No one you'd be interested in."

There's something in his voice that reminds me of a growl, like I was crossing a fine line that shouldn't be crossed.

"Can you at least tell me why?"

"Can you tell me why it matters?" He barks. "You weren't there. It didn't involve you. End of story."

I huff, deciding to drop it, though I still have loads of questions.

"It's ready." Harry switches the stove off suddenly. I walk through the door to my left, into the kitchen, and grab the plate noodles, and then add the homemade sauce. Italian and beer, classy, I think.