Cold Coffee~Harry Styles//ON HOLD

Chapter 1

Harry's POV

I am on my break. The back room of Empire Books is quiet, and I am alone. I sat patiently on a creaky cushioned chair, taking in my surroundings with ease. With my job came comfort and familiarity. I have been working at Empire Books since I was sixteen, hired for my past work experience at a library back home and my young appearance. Yes, you would believe that a bookstore would never stoop so low as to consider a candidate for a job because of their face. But, I often like to tell myself that I was only hired for my experience, and nothing else.

My eyes wander back to the clock on the wall of the break room. Twelve more minutes until my next shift. I release a low groan and lean back into my seat. You may be wondering why I might be so eager to get back to work. First of all, it's very boring to sit in a dull, familiar room when you have nobody to talk to, or any source of much needed entertainment. Second, I desperately need the money. No, I'm not homeless. No, I'm not broke.

I just have a father who is on my case about making a living and having a productive life. "Do you want to die without any accomplishments, Harry? Don't you want to make something great out of your life?" I rise from my seat and scan the dusty bookshelves, classics lining them in an unorganized mass. I smirk to myself. "Father, I am content with my life as long as I die happy," I mutter quietly, recalling my phone conversation with my father two nights ago. Lovely conversation it had been, filled with mild arguments and valid points that I refuse to address. Long story short; my father wants me to attend college.

I used to live in Cheshire. I am not American, but after I (with much struggle and effort) completed high-school, I decided that I wanted to live like one. Of course, I will always have English roots, but I also have quite a soft spot for America. New York has been such a wonderful experience.

I did not move here for some stupid cliche meaning, like wanting to "chase my dreams" or "meet my true love" or anything as rubbish as that. I sigh. Seven minutes.

I came here out of desire to try something new. I was positive that my father would be pleased; he's all for living life to the fullest. But, he was very disappointed in me when I decided I was to leave the country. This is something that I will never seem to understand. I am doing exactly what I always wanted to do; something great that I will not regret. Unfortunately, all we seem to do these days is fight, my father and I. It's discomforting, when a father and son who used to be so close grow so far. Sometimes it makes it hard to sleep, hard to dream.

And now he insists that I must go to school. He believes that I will find myself there, even though I already consider myself as a found person. I know what I enjoy, I am aware of what I dislike. It seems to me that I know myself just fine. Four more minutes. I chew on a fingernail, apprehensive. I need the money, I need to work. Maybe the boss will let me back in just a little early? Not a chance. "Harry, you work too hard," he'll say, and I'll be back here, stressing over a half hour of no work, no nothing. The money, you may wonder. Why is it so important anyway? Because, I made a deal with my father, two nights ago. He had said, "Harry, if you make enough money to live off of for this month, I won't force you back into school. But if you do not find this possible, then off to college you go." I don't like that deal. I don't think that he likes it either. But, at the same time, he relishes the thought of me being incapable. He likes to think of me crawling back to his feet and admitting that I was wrong. But I'll prove him wrong. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. One minute; there's no stopping me. I must go back to work now.

Stacey, a wiry blonde woman who just completed her shift, walks toward me. She smiles tiredly, wiping her brow and patting me on the shoulder gently.

"The counter's all yours, Harry. I'll be heading home now."

Stacey is a mother with two children. She works part time at Empire Books in order to support her family, and I appreciate her support. She's probably the nicest person that I've ever worked with.

"Have a good night," I say. "Is it busy out there?" Stacey purses her lips and nods, brushing a loose strand of hair off of her forehead. I smile, glad. Maybe I'll be paid a bit more if I work extra hard. Maybe. "Get out there," Stacey urges, and I wave as I jog toward the checkout counter. Before I can get there, I'm stopped by my boss, Mr. Hicks.

"Harry," he says, a fake smile resting on his lips. "Did you complete your break? Every minute of it?" I chuckle. It amuses me how cautious he gets about my breaks. I sneak a peek over his shoulder at the counter. A few people have gathered and are waiting for assistance.

I say quickly, "Yeah... Yeah, I did. Now if you'll excuse me..." I make a desperate attempt to go to my shift, but Mr. Hicks catches me by the shoulder.

"Now there, Mr. Styles. Are you sure you don't want to go home for the day? I've got a brand new employee that would love to take your shift."

"No," I snap immediately. "I mean, I don't think that's the best idea. A night shift would be awfully tough for a new employee."

Mr. Hicks clucks his tongue in disapproval. "Now, Harry, I'll tell you what I don't think. I don't think that you should work any longer today. It's time for you to go, Mr. Styles. Have a nice night."

I lick my lips and take a step towards my boss. "But I'll see you tomorrow morning, right?" Mr. Hicks just laughs and says, "Take the weekend off, Harry. You work too hard. "

***

In my brown coat, I exit the Empire Books store and walk towards my apartment. Am I frustrated that I have now been cheated of my night shift? Yes. Am I still fuming from being given the weekend off? I don't believe I will be able to stop thinking about that for a long while. Why must I always listen to people older, and supposedly wiser, than me? I am encouraged by my elders that I should become my own person, and aspire my dreams, yet I am held back by their orders. It is something that I ponder over quite often lately.

At this rate, I have an incredibly hard time believing that I could ever make enough income to take care of myself for the rest of this month. I stumble along the cracked streets, maneuvering around grumpy New Yorkers that probably aren't used to being up this late. The lights from the shops and the city light my way, and I eventually make out my dingy flat in the distance. I got it for a good price when I first moved here and I haven't given it up since.

I reach the door, with paint chips crumbling off in large amounts and a dirty door mat at my feet. My hand searches my coat pocket for my key, and I find it, rust covering the silver surface, looking ready to snap in two. I open my door and stumble inside, quickly finding the light switch and illuminating the room. My flat is boring. The floor is old hard wood, and the walls are painted a cranberry red. I have a lamp in the corner, next to a big chair. My walls are plain, except for one piece of abstract art that I do not care for. The coffee table in the center if the room occupies my laptop and a cup of coffee that most likely lost it's warmth hours ago. I hang up my coat on a rack and throw my key on the table. I take a sip of the coffee out of curiosity, and wrinkle my nose at my findings. I untie my shoes and kick them off next to the chair, and it grab my lap top.

I hastily go to Google and type in a question that I never wanted to be answered. I click on the second link, and sigh at my discovery. My spirits seem to sink as I read the information that the website provides. I bite my lip and groan inwardly, out of annoyance and defeat. I fumble for my cell phone, and squint at my computer screen. The location I am looking at is close, very close. I could definitely walk there if I had the desire to. I dial a few numbers on my phone, and hit the call button. My foot taps in anticipation as the phone rings. Finally, a dreary, scratchy sounding voice utters, "Hello, you have reached the line of Cooper Community College, located in New York. How may I help you?" I want to apologize and say I called the wrong number. I want to flake and freak out. But, I can't. I know that I can't, and that frustrates me to no end.

"Hello, my name is Harry Styles. Is there an administrator I can talk to? I am willing to apply."