Sonata (Harry Styles FanFiction)

41. Deep Breath

"Take care of my girl." I swore, I imagined his voice. He couldn't have actually said that. He couldn't have possibly given us his blessing. He was truly mad. Nevertheless, he nodded once more before scooping up his case and shutting my office door after his retreating form. Absently, I registered the sound of a key turning the lock, but I was so far from comprehending ridiculous details. So much had just happened, was still happening.

I didn't think. I couldn't. Instead, I buried my face in her hair, kissing her, willing away her heartache.

"Come back to me, Darien."

Darien Grace

Yesterday had been fucking madness. I could hardly remember most of it. The memory of us fucking in my room that morning felt so far away it may as well have been another life entirely. The whole ordeal with Caleb; I felt like I'd aged at least ten years... and then Harry. Fuck. What the mother fucking shit was I was supposed to do about that? I was livid with Caleb for not locking the door— for letting him stay, for letting him see me like that—that was a girl who was never allowed to see the light of day. Yesterday had been a fluke; she'd resurfaced for a microsecond and it just happened to be the worst fucking possible microsecond ever.

As soon as I'd calmed down enough to shut everything down again— all of the emotions and the tears— I'd left. The thought of staying there with Harry any longer, especially after what he'd seen, made my skin crawl. I was so goddamn embarrassed that it made me physically sick. I hadn't stopped to thank him. I knew that I should have, but I was too damn angry. I'd scrambled to my feet, grabbed all of my shit and ran. I'd just left his office and was on my way down the hall toward the elevators when the nausea hit. I'd sat on the floor of the restroom crying and retching. I was so damn disgusted with myself. I was better than that shit. I'd let in the darkness and it had taken over.

After the first wave of bone-liquidating nausea, I'd remembered with sickening clarity why I'd chosen anorexia over bulimia— throwing up. I fucking hated it. I hated everything about it: the taste it left, the weakness, the risk of esophageal cancer. Shit, I had enough cancer to worry about. I already had to go for yearly mammograms. Believe me, there is nothing fun about having your boob crushed for any amount of time. (I kept forgetting to call my gynecologist and check on my next appointment. I knew it was coming up. The prick had probably scheduled it for Friday)

I could vaguely remember his words from last year. He'd scheduled the exam on my birthday then, too. "What's a better way to celebrate another year of life than finding out that you get to have another?" My logical side agreed with him, but I was sure that all of NYU would agree that my logical half wasn't exactly the dominating part of my personality. I still couldn't see why having my boob flattened was any cause for celebration. That shit fucking hurt.

I rolled my eyes, readjusting my Beats. I'd opted for a day of Netflix and whiskey rather than class. I'd retreated to our Greg's for the second night in a row, avoiding dealing with the questions I'd be bombarded with both at the McKenney's and at Harry's. I thanked all of creation every day for Gregory Davies. Despite everything that had happened between us, he was still once of the best friends I could ever ask for. He'd given me the key to his room and had taken up residence on the sofa in the den down the hall. Ironically, the Delta Chi frat house was safer— it gave me time to lick my wounds in peace.

All of the fraternity's members new better than to bother me. I came and went on my own accord— completely ignored by everyone except for Greg. It was perfect. I wasn't exactly in the mood to deal with the human population. The recorded humans ninja-kicking each other on my computer screen were far more entertaining and would require less therapy in the long run. Lord only knew how many Tom Cruise movies I'd watched and shots I'd taken before had Jas walked in. I'd made a game out of Tom's oh-so predictable one-liners. Shots all around! I'd had to already have taken at least eleven or twelve... either way, there was a snooty blonde bitch glaring down at my inebriated self.