Yours: a short story [harry styles] ✓

3

17th August 2017

"I am so fucking excited right now." Elenore exclaimed, shuffling and re-shuffling the stack of envelopes on the coffee table. Freshly bronzed and hair as light as cream from her recent time in the sun; she'd never looked better. Happier. Healthier.

"They're just RSVPs, Ele." I sighed; wiping the back of my left hand across my forehead. Clammy. Warm. "And can you take it down a notch? I don't think I have the energy to deal with this level of enthusiasm today."

I'd woken up feeling as though I was at death's door, being greeted by the Grim Reaper himself. Harry and I had polished off a bottle of wine between us last night—for no reason whatsoever—and I'd woken up realising that maybe I wasn't cut out for booze anymore. When did I get old?

"Christ, you look like shit." My best friend grimaced; eyelash extensions fluttering in disgust. "I hope that's not catching. I'm supposed to be attending a golf tournament with Niall this weekend."

I dismissed her with a wave. "Don't fret, my light weighted-ness won't interfere with your social calendar."

I slumped down on the sofa beside her. There really were a lot of envelopes; all wedding RSVPs that Ele had agreed to help me go through this morning while Harry was in an important call. We'd start work on the seating arrangements for the reception later, once Nola was back from nursery and in bed. Our child was loud and loved to be centre of attention—we had no hope of getting anything done with her awake.

"This was one of my favourite parts of wedding planning." Elenore sighed dreamily; staring at the rock on her left hand and the recently acquired band of diamonds now sat with it. "Finding out who was going to be there, sharing our big day."

"Ele," I snorted; although regretted it immediately when my stomach churned in protest. "You spent the whole of that process making a tally of how many famous people were going to be there. Do you need reminding of the Ed Sheeran and Guest saga?"

Elenore scowled and allowed her hand to drop back into her lap; jostling the envelopes. "Whatever, Marn. Let's just get on with this before I catch your plague."

At the mention of plague, my stomach gurgled. "I'm not ill." I grumbled; taking an envelope from the pile. "Just embarrassingly inept at consuming more than one glass of alcohol." I was prepared to elaborate on my explanation, ready to jump to my own defence once Elenore had undoubtedly attempted to ridicule me, but the handwriting on the envelope I'd selected brought me to an abrupt stop.

Oh no.

I ripped it open, heart pounding, and dumped the contents in my lap. The last letters I'd received from this handwriting had been in reference to the death of my mother. Cold and impersonal. I'd been in pieces and Harry had been furious. We'd hardly mentioned the sender since.

"Marnie, what's wrong?" Elenore exclaimed; shoving her own envelopes aside and helping me gather the crumpled bits of my own. We'd sent out a RSVP cards with our invitations; chosen beautiful swirling calligraphy on floral printed card. But with this person's handwriting, it looked all wrong. My stomach lurched when I reached the name printed on the line at the bottom.

Preston Owens

"What the fuck?" Elenore voiced the words echoing on repeat in my head. "Did you seriously invite him to your wedding?"

I shook my head immediately, imitating a dashboard nodding dog. "Absolutely not. Not after what happened! Not after the last letter." 

Ele snatched the card from my hands as if double and triple checking it. As if hoping the name might change to someone we'd prefer. "Then how the hell did he get an invite in the first place?"