𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋! | harry styles

𝐈

THE elderly woman is dressed in her robe and slippers, her back hunched and her dark hair pulled tight atop her head. "Come," she says quietly, waving us inside with an arthritis-gnarled hand. I bring Cody around and usher him into the apartment in front of me, trying my best to ignore the resistance I feel as I press a hand to the spot between his shoulders.

Neda's husband is asleep on his recliner just feet away, with the Iranian news still playing on the TV. The apartment smells of something delicious: garlic, tomatoes, and a heady mix of exotic spices that make my stomach growl with hunger. I can't remember the last time I ate a decent meal.

"How are you, Mrs. Eizadi?" I whisper. "How's Joseph?"

She waves a hand in the direction of her snoring husband. "Good, good."

Stopping us just inside the door, Neda clutches her bathrobe shut and bends down to give Cody a kiss on each of his cheeks. With both hands cupping his face, and smiles down at him.

"Hello, azizam," she says, her face softening, and wrinkles appearing at the sides of her eyes as she smiles. Ignoring her age and her old creaky bones, she picks up my son and lifts him onto her hip, where he immediately rests his head on her shoulder. I watch with thinly veiled jealously as his eyelids droop, and he tucks the thumb that isn't wrapped around a stuffed toy into his mouth. Neda smiles as Cody nestles his head into her shoulder. He's quiet and close to sleep again, his body sagging gently against her chest.

Leaning in, I press a kiss to the top of his head. "Night, baby," I whisper, kissing him on the cheek. His skin smells like bubble bath and that unmistakable scent that's all his; and I can't help but breathe in a lungful of it.

"Bye, Momma," he says quietly, sighing tiredly as he buries his face into Neda's neck. The sight of him snuggling into her sends a tiny crack through my heart. Swallowing the ache, I step away, ignoring the resentment that festers in my chest. While I'm thankful to the old lady for everything she does for me, I resent her for being able to watch my son fall asleep when I can't.

"I'll be back in the morning."

The old woman nods, rubbing a soothing hand up and down Cody's back. His sock-clad feet dangle at her waist as she walks me to the door. I adjust the bag on my shoulder, squeezing the strap to stop from snatching my boy out of her arms. "He's already brushed his teeth." She nods. "And he's had a bath." She nods again. "Oh, and don't forget the nightlight-"

"Yes. Is fine," she says with a smile. "I look after."

Before I can change my mind, I reach out and squeeze the toes on one of Cody's feet before slipping through the front door and out into the hallway. The apartment door closes, and I listen to the locks click over again until I'm left alone in the hallway with nothing but the smell of rising damp and the sound of the lights buzzing overhead.

Tired, I slump against the wall, hanging my head.

Leaving Cody is never easy, but for some reason tonight seems harder than the rest. It might be it's because his birthday is coming up. My baby-the tiny little boy that tore open my world four years ago-is getting older. I miss the soft head cradled against my chest, the smell of his baby skin, his warm weight in my arms as he slept.

But watching him grow-watching him become his own little person-has become a brand new reward of its own, so I know that it's more than that.

No. It's the idea that every day he gets older he'll become more aware. Understanding will begin to sink in, and he'll soon realize that he doesn't have the toys that the other children do, that his clothes are second hand, and that we live in a shitty two-bedroom walk-up with intermittent hot water and no heating. He'll come to understand more and more that even though I'm doing my best, I'll still never be able to give him everything he needs.

It's this-the idea that Cody will think of me as a failure-that crushes me from the inside out, squeezing the air from my lungs and forcing my stomach into my throat.

My hand drifts to the soft overnight bag that's slung over my shoulder, where beneath the cotton and layers of clothing sits a rent bill with the words "past due" stamped on it in red ink.

Working two jobs six days a week isn't the way I'd envisioned my life. But with debt hanging over my head, the cost of raising a child, and inner-city living, I'm doing all I can just to make ends meet.

Still, it's not enough. It never seems to be enough.

As much as it pains me to do it-to spend all of this time away from Cody when he's so young-I do what have to do to make sure that he has a roof over his head. That he has enough to eat. That he has clothes on his back. That he can go to school and maybe grow up to be a better person than I will ever be.

The front doors slam shut on the ground floor, the sound echoing up the stairwell. Sighing, I lift myself from the wall, closing all of these horrible, gut-churning thoughts behind my steel resolve.

The wooden stairs creak under my feet, the old wood flexing underfoot. Over the sound of the TV from apartment 2A I hear a heavy set of footsteps coming up the stairs below me, and when I reach the first landing I see Harry, who lives a few doors down from me, making his way up the stairs. His shoulders are hunched, his head covered by a black knit cap. I can hear the rattle of change in his pocket as he takes each step, and the tinny sound of music echoing from a pair of headphones that dangle around his neck. Never looking up, he slows as I approach and moves to the side. The stairs are narrow, barely three feet wide. He has to flatten himself against the wall to let me pass.

Looking up briefly, I smile. "Thanks."

He nods and continues up the stairs behind me, pushing the headphones back into his ears.

I've seen him around a few times, mostly just in the stairwell or in the parking lot. He keeps to himself a lot, barely affording anyone much more than a passing hello. But still, there's something interesting about Harry and his quiet demeanor. I pause at the bottom of the stairs and look back, hoping to catch another look at him, but he's already gone.

It's jarring, his silence-especially given the way he looks; like a storm on the horizon, something dark and fierce. But I know better than most that looks can be deceiving.

Everything is not always what it seems.

* * *

*Azizam - Farsi for darling