You've Got My Devotion (Hate You Sometimes)

Chapter 13

Gemma shows up at Harry's door that evening with a bottle of wine, vegan chocolate, and Harry's favourite film,The Notebook. Harry doesn't think he'd ever been more grateful to see another person right now. He'd explained it to her over the phone, mere hours after the fact. She'd immediately cursed and said she'd be over within the hour, but Harry had sworn her off, begging for time alone. He managed to keep her – and everyone else concerned for his wellbeing – at bay for a solid four days. That, it seems, was Gemma's limit.

"I know it's sort of late, but I just wouldn't forgive myself if I didn't come," she says, determination written into the firm line of her lips and the knit of her brows. "I don't know if you're ready for a romantic film, but I thought I'd bring one anyway," she says, walking over the threshold and squeezing Harry into a brief, but no less appreciated hug. She gives him a quick once over and it's a true testament to the dire state of things that she doesn't make fun of his dishevelled appearance.

"You're the best," Harry sighs, closing the door behind him. He shuffles back through his house, four-day-old joggers sagging in all the wrong places, hair a matted mess and pulled up in a scrunchie. He's even stopped bothering to shave. He must look awful. "No, seriously, you are."

Now, two hours and one shower later, both their eyes puffy and cheeks tear-stained as the credits roll, Harry lets out a laboured sigh. They're sitting in the dim of the cosy living room, the glare of the flat-screen TV illuminating their faces in the dark.

They sit in the quietude of the end credit soundtrack until Gemma leans across and tugs on the light cord of the lamp beside the couch, the very same one Harry nearly knocked over that night with Louis on this very same couch. But he's trying not to think about that particular memory. A small orb of warm yellow light suspends around them and Harry blinks at the sudden brightness.

"Are we going to speak about you-know-who or are we pretending he doesn't exist?" Gemma asks tactfully, eyeing her brother knowingly. She swivels her upper body to face Harry side-on, propping an elbow against the back of the couch. The velvet dents under her weight, casing shadows of azure blue.

"The latter, I think," Harry says, sniffling, and then forcing a pitiful sort of chuckle. He breaks off a row of the chocolate and fills his mouth with it, saying, muffled, "If you don't mind."

Gemma gives a curt nod, then leans across to ruffle through her bag.

"In that case," she says in a tone that reminds him she went to school for teaching. She pulls out a stack of bridal magazines and they make a smacking sound as she drops them on the coffee table in front of them. "Where should we start?"

Harry gapes between his sister and the pile of magazines. "No," he says, disbelieving. Gemma may be engaged, but she has never been the marrying kind. She adores other people's weddings, but her neurotic personality makes for total chaos when it comes to planning her own. Whenever Harry has brought up venue options, dress designers or florist options, Gemma has simply cringed and insisted she'd sooner 'get hitched at mum's pub'. The idea of anyone making a big fuss over her makes her complexion go from white to beetroot red. Sometimes Harry wonders if it were up to her, she'd elope in the city hall. Fortunately, Harry and Anne won't allow it. And, as Harry suspects – deep down – she sort of loves it. She's just never been very good at being the centre of attention, that's all.

"Well, you are my best man, aren't you?" Gemma says, knowing full well this is brand new information that is set to make her baby brother a puddle of emotions on the floor.

"I am?" he says, eyes already watering again and mouth quivering.

"Oh, bloody hell, don't cry, H," she says, chuckling and patting him awkwardly on the back. "You knew this was coming, surely."