Behind the Scenes

Chapter 20

KATE

My senses were slow to come out of the deep, consuming slumber I had fallen into. It was a sluggish, almost reluctant wakening, as if my body knew what my mind had forgotten, and was screaming 'abort, abort!' I could hear the rain beyond the room, the soft but steady pattering of water against the window pane, the darkness of the room hinting to the clouds covering the sky.

My mouth felt dry and pasty, a burning in my throat I had never experienced before to this degree. I felt like my skin was coated in sweat, but the rest of me felt as though I had walked through the Sahara and was depleted of all water in my system. The moment I peeled open my eyes, I regretted the action, snapping them closed again with a groan before pulling the blankets over my head. Even those small movements were enough to make my head spin and pound.

I felt like I was dying. Actually, I would hope death didn't feel as bad as this, because if it did, I was now more afraid than ever to die. With each slow, steady breath, the wave of nausea that crashed over me slowly ebbed, allowing me to calm. But the moment I moved to pull the blanket away from my head, the feeling rose, stilling my action.

Movement, bad. Bed, good.

What the hell happened last night? I could still taste liquor on my tongue, the heavy, sticky aftertaste clinging like a nightmare. Slowly, I tried to bring my alcohol laden mind to action, recalling the events of the last twenty four hours.

My birthday. I remembered that much, that yesterday had been my birthday. I remembered waking to balloons and breakfast with Ashley, before going to set. As per my usual birthday resistance, I could still feel the apprehension in my chest at the idea of anyone mentioning the day aloud.

I could remember Harry, standing by my writing room, looking as knee weakeningly handsome as ever. It was then that my mind finally landed on the first of many unexpected, unplanned and definitely unpleasant occurrences from the day before.

Nicole. My older, narcissistic and oblivious sister had come to New York. In an attempt to do something nice for me, Harry had instead forced the torrential downpour of reclusive instincts, self loathing and bad memories to surface all in the shape of someone who looked a lot like me.

I could remember walking around set, listening to Nicole ramble on about school, her life, her friends. She told me my parents said happy birthday, and that they were on a cruise in the Caribbean with the Fosters next door. I had no idea they were away. I remember putting Nicole in a taxi to the airport just after dinner, feeling completely drained and empty as I watched it blend in with the city scape yellow cabs and tail lights.

I remembered how desperately I had wanted a drink.

Everything from that point on felt fuzzy and disjointed, as if I was watching the memories through a channel that wasn't quite in focus. I had taken one of Nicole's ID before she got in the taxi, knowing that I would need some liquid therapy to take the edge of the day. I remembered handing it to the bartender, who looked at me skeptically before pouring me my first. And second. Then third.

Harry. Harry had shown up at the bar just as the alcohol was finally taking effect. I knew he felt badly for his faux pas. My anger was no longer with him. By this point, my anger at the situation had faded, leaving in its wake all the feelings of inadequacy and self doubt I thought I had escaped.

He asked about my past. I told him. How much, I couldn't remember clearly, but it must have been enough. Because the one thing I could remember was the look in his eyes. The look of pity. And I hated it.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't remember coming to my room. And yet here I was, still in my jeans, my shirt gone but bra still intact. Had Harry brought me back to my room? What something happened?

I tried to force through the whiskey wall blocking my memories, my finger tips coming to my lips. They were tender and dry, evidence of his presence still lingering.

Oh my God.

I rolled over quickly, the room spinning as I check the bed beside me, before breathing a sigh of relief to find it empty. Another roll of nausea threatened to spill forward, but I pushed it back as my eyes fell to the glass of water on my nightstand.

He kissed me. I remembered it vaguely, the feeling of his lips against my own. I remembered his touch, the feeling of his skin beneath my fingers and the ridges of his abdomen. Again, I touched at my lips, struggling to remember the moment clearly but unable.

We made out. I couldn't remember anything after that, but didn't need to. Whatever happened ended up with me alone in this bed, and my clothes half on. We clearly didn't sleep together despite the fact I remembered clinging to him like a lifeline. But despite a willing, eager girl throwing herself at him, he still wasn't there.

He left.

Rolling onto my back, I took long, slow breaths as I tried to pull myself out of my stupor. I had never been much for drinking, and now I remembered why. Not only had I made a fool of myself, I had made out with Harry Styles. Sure, that was pretty much every girls dream come true. But what did I do? Somehow found myself alone the next morning.

He was used to supermodels, actresses and stunning girls from all over the world. I was just....me. The quiet, bookish girl who fought with him at every opportunity. The girl he saw as a challenge, because I made it clear early on that I wasn't going to be one of those fans who fell at his feet. But even when I gave in to him, he didn't want me.

The heat of humiliation filled my face, the warm sting of tears burning at the back of my eyes. My already dry throat felt as though it was going to crack as I tried to swallow back my emotion, slowly rubbing my hands over my face. Reaching out, I brought the glass of water he had left to my lips, drinking it down entirely. Water had never tasted so good.

Cradling the now empty glass on my chest, I turned towards the opposite bed. I could see Ashley's figure lumped under her blankets. I didn't remember her coming home, but was certainly glad it was after my Harry mistake. The last thing I needed was to have to relay one of my greatest disgraces to my best friend.

I let my tired, sore eyes lift to the ceiling above me, trying to work out what to do next. We still had three weeks of filming left before I would no longer be expected to interact with Harry Styles in any form. Three more weeks of having to face him, to look at him, knowing what almost happened last night.

As much as the panic began to rise in my stomach, I tried to resolve myself to success. I could do this. I told myself before this started that I wouldn't let Harry Styles and his superstar persona break me down. I wouldn't give in to him and his ego, and I wouldn't play his games. As much as the sting of last night was still fresh and painful, I could do this.

I could finish this show, and move on. And I would never have to see Harry Styles again.