Wonder ❄️ | h.s. |

Chapter Eight

Against my will, my eyes keep drooping shut. This Winter Wonder Fest meeting has been going on for two hours already and I swear this room is like ten degrees warmer than it normally is: it's perfect napping conditions. It also doesn't help that we've been discussing the budget, which just might be the most boring topic in the world. I've never particularly liked math and right now it's sounding like a lullaby. But Christmas is just a week away, meaning it's crunch time for the volunteer committee and I really should be paying more attention than I currently am.

I need to distract myself to stay awake, so I begin looking around to find something interesting. Suddenly, my attention gets drawn by a slight cough to my left. Harry is sitting there, his leg bouncing restlessly as he focuses in depth on twirling around his many rings. Nice to see that he's paying about as much attention as I am. But at least he's able to keep his eyes open.

It was worth it to be this tired though—last night was fun.

Harry and I might've actually had a breakthrough yesterday because he's been acting almost unsettlingly kind to me this morning. It reminds me of the way you would do all your chores before you would ask your parents if you could have money. I'm kind of just waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it hasn't yet.

When I first arrived home from Chester Pikes, Harry had prepared lunch for me. Granted, it was just a peanut butter and jelly, but it was still incredibly sweet. And he seemed so nervous for me to like it, as if he could've possibly messed up a pb&j. After that, he cleaned up both of our plates without me even asking. Again, it was kind of the bare minimum, but the thought was there. He even kept his snide comments to himself when I emerged from my room wearing the first of my tacky Christmas sweaters.

He took the entire act a little far, however, when he complimented my hair. Which, for the record, I knew did not look good today. It was scraped up into a crusty bun because I can never be bothered to fix my hair after drinking. The next morning, my curls are always unmanageable.

"I appreciate the lie," I told him. "But I see what you're doing. Flattery isn't going to suddenly make me like you."

Realizing that I had caught on to his charade, his face had dropped like a dog's tail after being reprimanded. I can't imagine it's often that he can't get what he wants through flattery, he is a superstar after all. Or, at least, he was.

It's weird looking over at Harry now, sitting cross legged on a metal folding chair in a small community center classroom, with his ratty boots bouncing to the beat of some song in his head. Under the fluorescent lights, he looks just like everyone else. It's a stark contrast to the professionally lit stages or photoshoots I had been accustomed to seeing him through. Even with his beautifully curated outfit (more granny clothes that he's managed to make look like a million bucks), he's just another boy. Don't get me wrong, his features are still chiseled by the gods, but the details are a bit fuzzy. His hair isn't as perfectly styled as it once was, likely due to the lack of proper products I owned. His second-hand clothes possess the slightest wear and tear from years of being loved by previous owners. It's like the difference between looking at a HD photo and an iPhone photo. It's still Harry, but he finally seems real. His imperfections are no longer photoshopped out, but to be honest, I like him better this way.

"Alright, I'm losing you, so let's take a quick break," Mrs. Blake says from the front of the room. I must not have been the only one struggling to keep my eyes open. "Get up, stretch your legs, get something to eat. We'll reconvene in 10."

A small rumble of people getting up and chatting fills the room. I stand up to stretch my legs and push up the sleeves of my flannel—I never wear my Christmas sweaters out of the house, so I had changed before coming to the meeting.