The Guest [harry styles]

5

The clicking of Tom's Cuban heels against my hallway resonates in my ears. As it has done for the past two hours. After my dramatic exit, I wound up sulking in the dining room—only for Tom to follow hot on my heels like a film director demanding I return to the set.

"Will, are you mad at me?" I look up to find my best friend hovering in the doorway. His expression is not as confident as it was only minutes ago. I can't even bring myself to consider what Harry must be thinking right now.

"I don't know, Tom." I mumble, refusing to meet his eye. "I don't know."

"You know I love you, right?" His voice is small, hesitant almost. "You know I only want the best for you, don't you?" I don't reply. "I wanted this for you more than I wanted it for Harry. Please just try. It won't kill you to open up to someone. You never know, you might end up having his babies?"

I almost laugh. Almost.

"I'm going to go. Call me when you want to talk."

I run a finger over the edge of a framed photo of my mother. I seem to miss her more than ever these days, and even with an exuberant best friend and a phone that rings on an hourly basis—most of all I just feel lonely. I tell Tom until I'm blue in the face that I enjoy my own company, but sometimes I think it might actually be myself that I'm trying to convince.

My phone has been long turned off now. I know I'll be greeted by multiple missed calls and maybe some borderline aggressive voicemails when I eventually turn it back on, but I still can never find it in me to answer them. The issue with my brother sits like a heavy weight on my chest, and yet it's one I'm not quite willing enough to lift. Why couldn't he just be normal? Why couldn't he just be there for his little sister?

"Knock knock." I look up; surprised to find Harry leant against the doorframe. He's swapped his football jersey for a sweatshirt that's too short on the sleeves and has a huge hole in the main pocket. He gestures to one of the many unoccupied dining chairs and stretches his mouth into a huge grin. "Can I join you?"

I'm not sure I deserve his flawless manners after today's events, but I nod anyway. "Sure." He strides into the room and pulls out the wooden chair on my left. Neither of us speaks as he makes himself comfortable and props his elbows up so that he can rest his chin on his hands.

"Is that your mum?" He asks and nods at the frame still clutched in my fingers. I nod back in confirmation but offer no elaboration on the subject. "Look, Willa, I know I said I wasn't eavesdropping earlier—but I kind of was. I really didn't mean to upset you the other day."

"You di—"

Harry shakes his head. "Please just let me finish. Tom didn't tell me that you'd lost your mum, and I'm really sorry that you had to go through that. If I'd known then I would never have accepted the offer to stay here. So if me going would make things more comfortable for you, I am completely happy to do that. Just say the words and I'm gone."

It suddenly feels an awful lot like my mouth is full of cotton. The last thing I expected to come from this conversation, was to be on the receiving end of Harry's selflessness. And although I am grateful that he's willing to give me back my space—I also feel incredibly guilty about it. I'm supposed to be doing him a favour—what sort of person would I be to take it away?

Because Tom is quite right—I haven't even tried. Not really.

"I don't want you to go, Harry." I sigh and place my mother's frame onto the dining table. She grins at the pair of us—dressed in her favourite canary yellow cord skirt with a hair scrunchie to match. "I'm just not very good at...this. I've been alone here for a while now and I've never really spoken about what happened with mum. It all just got a bit much."

He licks his lips and sits up a little straighter. "You can talk to me." He says. "About your mum."

Inwardly, I cringe. Talking about my mother is the last thing I want to do. "Aren't you supposed to be working or something?"

"I'm supposed to be writing for my next album." He sounds like a child who knows they should be doing their homework. "But I've had pretty bad writer's block. Hence why I was advised to take myself off somewhere quiet."

I can't help the resounding groan that escapes my lips. "I guess Tom and I bickering is the last thing you need. I'm sorry you had to see that."

Even if it had been a long time coming...

He laughs while shaking his head and I find myself admiring the dimple that appears when he does so. "It's your house, Willa. You can do whatever you like."

He's not wrong, but there's something humble about him saying so. Mum would have really liked you I can't help thinking, and my eyes flicker back down to the frame on the table. I really need to stop being so damn sentimental all the time.

Harry clears his throat. "I should probably add that I didn't mean to cause a problem between you and Tom either. I know you mean a lot to him—even if he does have a funny way of showing it. Did you know he has a photo of you in his wallet?"

I want to tell Harry how much I agree with him—relieved that I'm not the only one who sees what a psycho my best friend is. But I don't. As frustrating as it is to admit to myself, I am well aware that Tom really does have my best interests at heart. Even if the aforementioned photograph of myself is the worst one in existence. It was taken four years ago at Thorpe Park, just after I'd gotten off the Tidal Wave ride and looked like a drowned rat. "Let's just start again, Harry, ok? You can stay for as long as you need, and don't worry about Tom and I. We'll work it out—we always do. If we were able to get past both having a crush on Emmett Parsons in year five, then we can definitely get through this."

Why on Earth did I tell him that?

Shaking my head, I go to push my chair away from the table so that I can actually attempt to do something productive with what's left of my day, but one of Harry's large hands curls around one of my own—leaving me in a half sitting/half standing limbo. "Thank you." He says. His voice is so sincere that I can't quite bring myself to make eye contact with him. "And I promise I'll stay true to my word and do the washing up every day."

"Well that was non-negotiable anyway." I grin once he finally releases my hand and allows me to stand up straight. Harry's now free hand flies up to his chest in mock surprise.

"Oh my god!" He exclaims in a tone that's somehow more dramatic than Tom's was when he found out that Brangelina had separated. "She smiles!"

Suddenly feeling incredibly out of my comfort zone, I begin to retreat towards the doorway—managing to maintain the amused expression on my face. Harry's laugh follows me, only stopping as I step out into the hallway.

"Willa," he calls after me. I pause but don't turn to face him. "I meant what I said before—about talking to me. Talking to me about your mum. Don't be shy, ok?"

I opt not to reply, but as I head for the stairs, something warm emcompasses me. Just a flicker of a feeling.

The feeling that I'm not alone.