Fooled (Larry Stylinson) ✅

8. Surprise

  Louis' POV  

The glamorous part about being a graduate student is that no one pays for your shit anymore— at least not in my case. My parents had helped me out with living expenses and tuition during my undergraduate education, which ultimately gave me a false sense of optimism and freedom. But now that I was a 24 year old grad student, it was all on me to cover my expenses.

Hence my (dreadful) part time job. 

After Niall and I moved into our apartment in September, I started working at a restaurant to make ends meet. The place was American barbecue joint in the East Village called "Smoking Slo's" (bloody awful name and branding with a giant pig on the front door!), and if you ask me, their food is mostly just heaps of meat with various sauces. But if you ask most of my customers, they'll probably tell you it's "mmm-mmm good." Or whatever it is Americans say. You get it, right?

As I left my class and headed to my evening shift, I couldn't help but dread all of the annoying questions I was going to have to answer about what the best dish is or what sides to get or if it's vegan/gluten free/calorie free/etc.... You know when you ask your waiter about a dish and he says: "Oh, I've tried that, it's really good!" Well 99% of the time he hasn't. Or he has and it was just okay. Just trust me on it.

I took a seat on the one train, thankful that I had just missed the 6pm rush, and scrolled through my phone, though it hardly worked when were underground. If they sold a data plan that worked on the subway, I would totally pay for it. I was getting tired of downloading all my music and Netflix episodes just to survive my disgustingly boring commute from the Bronx to the East Village.

Popping in my earbuds, I opened Spotify and started to play a James Arthur song about unrequited love called "Can I be Him." It didn't really relate to what I was going through, but it wouldn't shock me if Harry was blowing me off for some other, hotter, fitter guy -- or three. Sighing, I tapped my fingers against the plastic orange seat and checked my other apps. 

Right away, I noticed that I had a new message, but it didn't seem pressing. I assumed it was either my mom asking how life is going in the "Big Apple" or Niall asking me how to work the washing machine for the thirteenth time. Either way, I wasn't in the mood to hear it. 

Speaking of my crazy roommate, apparently, things had gone really well for him with that girl the other night. He said she was really funny and that they had a passionate makeout session on the dance floor. Who knows, maybe he was texting to tell me he had another date with her?

I couldn't help feel a little bit jealous as I thought of Niall in yet another relationship. Niall had absolutely no problem starting or ending relationships — usually he was the one who did the dumping when things got too boring or he realized it wasn't working out or in one case, the the girl had a peeing fetish (don't ask). But me, well, I was almost always single... and even when I wasn't, my relationships didn't last very long.

The last relationship I had been in had lasted a month and a half, maybe two. It was with this American guy named Derek, who had dark brown hair and eyes and a jawline that could cut through glass. He seemed cute and charming, and we went on a couple of dates at restaurants. But most times, he usually just brought me to group events with his straight male friends who did things like bowing and laser tag. After attending a few of those events, I quickly realized that I would prefer stabbing myself with needles to wearing the clown-shaped bowling shoes and throwing a sweaty ball down a lane. 

But for whatever reason, I put up with all that rubbish because I really wanted to be to Derek. I didn't necessarily think he was the one, but I did think our relationship was going well and wanted to take it further. Little did I know he was going to dump me at the end of the summer without warning. 

His last text he ever sent me was: "It was just a casual fling. You were cute and I wanted to fuck you, but it wasn't anything serious." As you can imagine, I took that quite well.

Not.

Anyways, as I sat here thinking about ghosts of boyfriend's past (or in this case, fling's past), I decided to just open the message already to see what it said. And that's when my jaw dropped so low that I thought I heard it clatter on the subway floor. (In retrospect, it was actually someone throwing a tin can. But still.)

"Hey, It's Harry. sorry I took so long to text you. Life's been crazy. Care for dinner sometime soon?"

WHAT.
THE.
FUCK.

Like I said before, I was pretty awful at controlling my facial expressions, so it wasn't a surprise to me when the man sitting next to me slowly began inching a way and getting up from his seat as I reacted to the photo. Honestly, I didn't give a single shit in that moment. 

My heart started beating rapidly and I could feel my face flushing as I re-read the message a few times, blinking to make sure it was real.

Harry Styles was either a really busy man or he just had tons of fun mentally fucking with me for the past week and a half. Either way, it was kind of hot.

I kept reading the part about dinner to myself silently. Dinner was so.... date-y. In my book, drinks pretty much meant "okay, let's talk a little and then get drunk and fuck." But dinner? That meant "let's actually get to know each other and then maybe we'll have sex but not sure yet." Honestly, either option sounded great to me if it was with Harry, and I don't think I've ever been more excited. 

Even after stalking all of his social media counts for the past week, there was still so much I wanted to know about him: like, why did he get a tattoo of a butterfly on his chest? Is that girl in his 2015 profile his girlfriend or his sister? And my personal favorite, why did he look so damn good wearing a pair of stilettos in Vegas?

I'm just kidding. Let's never mention any of that. Especially the Vegas part.

Taking a deep breath, I tried to ward off the dirty thoughts as I thought about how to answer this sexy creature. I really didn't want to overthink things or be too wordy, so I typed out my reply, simple and smooth, trying to ward off self-doubt:

"No worries. Dinner sounds good. Thursday night work for you?"

Then before I could mentally torture myself anymore by overanalyzing my message (good? Why not great?) I hit send.

That's when I realized I had applied less than five minutes later. I sighed and shook my head, rolling my eyes a bit. 

Fuck it. Just fuck it.