i 0d2125e00f277ca8 (42 page)

Harry in the carpark. Going home with Harry would only result in sex,

which probably would at least give him some of the relaxation he

sorely needs, but he needs to sleep more. Harry gives him puppy eyes

as he gets into his car, but Louis can tell his heart‟s not really in it.

285

Harry‟s dealing with a full courseload, working a job, and helping out

on the musical. He probably needs rest even more than Louis does.

Since sex is off the table—literally and figuratively—Louis makes do

with his next-best relaxation technique: wine and reality television. It‟s

stood by him for years now, and it won‟t fail him now. He settles into

his couch with a bottle of Shiraz, Duchess, and a stress headache that

ought to disappear once he gets two or three glasses in.

Louis‟ mobile rings while he‟s in the middle of screaming at the X

Factor. Normally this would be cause for him to ignore it, but when he

checks the screen it‟s Stan calling, which means Stan‟s in the middle of

doing the exact same thing.

He picks up the call and shouts “Are you seeing this shit?” down the

line, foregoing any normal greeting.

“I‟m seeing it, but I don‟t fucking believe it!” Stan yells back. “She was

the best thing this show has seen in years, there‟s no way she could

have gotten voted off. No fucking way.”

“Not unless this country is even stupider than I thought,” Louis says,

picking his wine glass up off the table and taking a long drink. “This is

bullshit.”

“Total bullshit,” Stan agrees. “God, I‟m not sure I‟ll even finish this

series now.”

Louis just laughs, watching the end credits roll. “Yeah, you will.”

Stan chuckles back. “Yeah, you‟re probably right. Still, I‟ll watch it

resentfully. If that bastard with the highlights wins I‟ll put a foot

through my telly.”

286

“Fine,” Louis says, leaning back on his couch. “But don‟t come crying

to me afterwards, asking me to record episodes of Top Gear for you.”

“On my honor,” Stan says. Louis can hear him take a bite of something

and chew it before he continues. “Well, Lou, since I‟ve conned you into

getting on the phone with me through the clever ruse of reality telly,

feel like updating me on your life? Which I know nothing about?”

Louis runs a hand through his hair and laughs at that. He can‟t deny it,

he‟s been busy as all hell since—well, as long as he can remember,

honestly, but especially lately. He can‟t remember the last time he and

Stan caught up, and he‟s quietly thankful for friends who take the time

to track him down when he wanders off.

“What do you want to know?” Louis asks, knowing that Stan will hear

the whoops, my bad, sorry I‟m a twat in his voice.

“What‟ve you got to say?” Stan replies, and Louis lies back on his

couch. It‟s gonna be a while.

He talks about his classes, telling stories of particularly horrendous

answers to exam questions and that time one girl fainted during an

improv exercise and no one realised she wasn‟t acting for about five

minutes. He talks about that awful week where his piece of shit car

broke down—again—and he had to face the horrors of public transport.

He talks about the play, and about Duchess, and about his mum. He

talks about Zayn, and Zayn‟s continuing pursuit of Liam, which Stan

supports for unfathomable reasons. He almost brings up the bar fight

incident, but then remembers how that particular fiasco started and

decides to leave it out.

He leaves Harry out entirely, actually, remembering Stan‟s searching

remarks at Christmas and knowing that his voice will give him away if

he brings him up at all. In fact, he‟s in the middle of silently

congratulating himself on his admirable self-censorship when Stan‟s

voice breaks his thoughts.

287

“So you‟re still seeing that Harry, then?”

Louis splutters and nearly knocks his wine to the ground. Only his

many years of couch-drinking experience save him. “What? How did—

what?”

“Well,” Stan says, “If you weren‟t, or if things had gone bad at all,

you‟d have spent this entire phone call complaining about it and

moaning about how you‟re right and love is dead and why won‟t

anyone listen to you, blah blah blah, kill me please. And you‟re not,

which means things must be good still, yeah?”

Louis winces to hear himself so concisely summed up. Is he really that

boring? “Yeah, things are still. Uh. Happening. Still feeling positive

about that whole situation.”

Stan snorts. “Well say hi to your „situation‟ for me then, yeah? You

should bring him „round to Doncaster sometime, I‟m sure your family

would love to meet him.”

“We‟re not really—we don‟t do that sort of stuff, really,” Louis says,

doing his damnedest not to think about Harry in his mother‟s kitchen.

“It‟s still a casual thing, if you can even call it a thing.”

“Well, whatever it is, or isn‟t, or however you‟re being stupid about it,

I‟m glad,” Stan says, with the sort of tired honesty that he‟s gotten

awfully good at over the years. “You sound really good, Lou. I mean

it.”

“Yeah?” Louis says, not really able to respond otherwise.

Other people he can brush off, but not Stan. Stan knows things, okay.

Especially about him. One day in sixth form Louis had shown up to

school and Stan had known Louis‟ cat had died without Louis even

telling him. It‟s freaky and probably the only way Louis actually knows

anything about himself.

288

And it‟s not just that, either. It‟s that Stan is probably the only person in

the world who knows every single part of Louis‟ life before he packed

up and ran from Doncaster, all the things between eighteen and twenty-

two that turned his insides dark and sour. He‟s probably the only

person who really, properly knows what it would mean for someone to

make Louis happy. He is the only person who really gets the

importance of that.

So if Stan thinks Harry is good for him, maybe there‟s something to it.

“Yeah,” Stan says. “I don‟t know, you sound more excited about your

life than I‟ve heard you in a long time. Getting laid by a very nice and

very fit young man probably helps with that, though I can‟t be sure.”

“Fuck off,” Louis laughs down the line, but, well. It‟s not like he‟s

wrong. “You sound good too, man, you have any secret people I should

know about?”

“Nah, I‟m still waiting for you to make an honest woman of me,” Stan

jokes, and Louis is never going to go this long without talking to him

again.

The two of them stay up talking until midnight, Louis making

occasional forays to the kitchen for things to snack on while he talks.

The rest of the conversation is made up mostly of ranting about things

on telly and inside jokes, most of which Louis couldn‟t explain to an

outsider if he tried, the kind of rambling conversation that goes on for

hours without anybody even noticing. It‟s nice, talking to Stan, because

he doesn‟t have to try. It‟s easy and it‟s just for the two of them. If he‟s

honest, being with Harry feels that way a lot of the time, and maybe

that‟s how it‟s so easy for Stan to pick up on whatever it is he has with

Harry—he already knows what Louis‟ like when he‟s comfortable with

someone.

He‟s in the middle of reliving some embarrassing thing that happened

to Stan when they were fourteen when his phone chimes against his ear,

289

and he switches to speaker so he can check the text that‟s just come in.

It‟s from Harry, and he feels himself smiling before he even opens it.

was just in the shower and almost slipped and killed myself because i

remembered that thing you said about avocados the other day and

couldn‟t stop laughing, just wanted to use this opportunity to remind

you that you‟re hilarious and i like you a lot and also that i am naked

right now ;) xx

Stan must hear the pleased sound he makes, because there‟s a knowing

tone to his voice when he asks, “Anything you want to tell me about?”

“Nope,” Louis says smugly, which is an answer in and of itself. Stan

just laughs, and Louis grins back even though Stan can‟t see him.

“Whatever you say, Lou,” Stan says. “All right, I‟m looking at the time,

and I should probably let you go so you can rest up for whatever fresh

hell you‟re gonna cause tomorrow.” Louis glances at his phone and

murmurs an assent. He hadn‟t realised how late it was. “It was really

good to talk to you,” Stan continues.

“Likewise,” Louis says, and means it. “And I promise I‟ll be less of a

shit and not leave it so long until we talk again.”

“You‟d better, you dick,” Stan says cheekily. He pauses then, and

Louis can hear him thinking. “And seriously, it‟s good to hear you

sounding so happy. Take care of yourself, Lou. Just, like, let yourself

be happy a little, yeah?”

“You‟re going soft on me, Stanley,” Louis says, but he‟s smiling.

“Shut up,” Stan says. “You‟re the worst.”

290

Louis hangs up laughing and pads into the bathroom to brush his teeth

and get ready for bed. Duchess is sitting on the counter next to the sink,

and she nuzzles her head into Louis‟ stomach.

“Hi, babe,” Louis says, rubbing his thumb between her ears. She purrs,

and Louis smiles, and when he looks up and sees his reflection in the

mirror, he almost doesn‟t recognize the person looking back at him.

The person looking back at him in that moment isn‟t miserable and

tired and tense. He‟s softer around the edges, warmer in the eyes,

happier. He looks younger, with shoulders that don‟t look so weighed

down. He looks good.

He thinks back to what Stan said, let yourself be happy a little, yeah?

and he thinks that if this is what Harry does to him, maybe he doesn‟t

need to be so scared. When he looks at it that way, from where he‟s

been lately, it‟s not so hard to see. Something that brings these old,

dusty parts of him out again for the first time in years can‟t be that bad,

right? This whole time he‟s been waiting for the other shoe to drop and

telling himself that as long as he keeps things under control it won‟t

hurt when Harry inevitably gets sick of him, but what if that doesn‟t

happen? What if Harry doesn‟t leave?

Louis closes his eyes and turns on the faucet, listening to the familiar

creaky pipes through the walls, and he decides to stop thinking for the

night.

Saturday rehearsals are always, always madness. There‟s some kind of

specific hysteria about a Saturday rehearsal, like summer camp and a

graveyard shift and cabin fever and musical theater all rolled up into

one big ball of crazy. He always looks forward to them even though

they‟re grueling, because it always feels good to get so much done at

once. And also they‟re madness, and there‟s always something

291

hilarious, and they all get to take a break halfway through to sit around

on the stage eating delivery pizza together.

Louis misses that about performing, the whole aspect of being a part of

the team. Technically the director is still part of the team, but there‟s

something about being a gear in the machine, something about the way

you connect with people when you‟re all on the same level trying to

create something together, that‟s just unlike anything else. He misses

feeling the kind of camaraderie that comes with late nights of marathon

rehearsals and performances in the middle of a bunch of your mates. He

misses being a part of something bigger than himself.

It‟s almost as good, though, to feel like he‟s giving that to his kids, so

he‟ll manage. Besides, he‟s got a job to do and a show to put on and a

goddamn set to finish.

The rehearsal is slated to last from nine in the morning to six in the