You Guys Fight But Try To Hide It From Your Friends (pt. II)
I FUCKING UPDATED. I FUCKING UPDATED. FINALLY. I KNOW, I HATE ME TOO.
“Go shoot that fucking film, Darcy and I can survive without you.”
After those words leave your mouth, it’s as if Harry transforms in front of you. Gone is the gentle, kind man you love as his features twist and harden into something cruel and malicious.
“Fine.” Is the last word that you expect him to say, but he does anyway. And he continues to do what you least expect, because he’s gathering up his coat and twisting open the front door. He takes one last long look at you, and for a short moment (although it seems to last forever), everything is silent.
A scene plays in your mind–a scene that you can easily recreate. You rush across the room and embrace Harry, begging him not to go, taking back your initial thoughts and words and offering to live in France with him and Darcy. Him smiling down at you and telling you he would love that. You can almost see it….how simple it would be to achieve that.
And you see how easy it would be for another scenario to occur. The one where Harry is the one slamming the door back shut and shrugging off his coat, getting down on his knees in front of you like it’s the very first time and taking all his words back.
But neither of those things happen, because you both are stubborn people. The whole room is still, and when you almost think Harry’s going to leave for certain, a voice cuts through his chest. “Woah, easy there girl. Don’t want your mommy and daddy getting mad at me for destroying their washroom.” It’s Louis, and it’s…Darcy. Laughing. Upstairs. Oblivious to what’s happening down here. Tears start to gather up in your eyes.
Harry’s head drops to the ground, and when you’re just about to open your mouth and tell him to stay, he’s already out the door. Liam looks at you with an apologetic stare, but you can’t move. Not until you hear Harry’s car start, and the gates closing signalling he has already driven away. And when that all happens, you collapse onto the ground, in a sea of tears and hair and bones.
Darcy is still laughing.
How much you would give to have Harry upstairs with her…
Three weeks later and no word from Harry. He had one of his friends that you have never met before come over to the house and gather his things. Darcy is confused to why “daddy” isn’t around, but with just a handful of smiles and false promises, happiness surrounds her days once again.
If only you could say the same.
You check your phone every second of every single day, and you are not mistaken. Harry has not called you nor texted you. The only evidence that you have to prove that he has not blocked your number is the occasional status updates he would post…in France.
“So he’s really shooting that movie, then.” Gemma was over for a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits (and to make sure you are alright). She nods, pressing her lips into a thin line before snatching up a wafer cookie on a plate on the coffee table. Darcy was at a playdate, and you had two hours to kill before you had to go pick her up.
“Has he contacted you at all?” Gemma asks politely. You were almost certain Anne, and probably Gemma herself, had already asked Harry about you two. After all, he was spotted everywhere without you, and there is no universe in which Harry would lie to the two people he values the most.
So you don’t know why she was asking you this question, when the answer was obviously known between you both. But still, out of kindness and respect, you confess, “Nope. Not a call or even a text.”
“He’s going to come around,” Gemma reassures you. You smile politely, but doubts are lining every square inch of your mind. He’s going to come around.
That night, long after Gemma had left apologetically, and shortly after you had tucked Darcy in, you couldn’t take it anymore. Throughout the day, little bits of you had broken over small things.
Darcy seeing a random guy on the street and calling him daddy. TMZ blowing up when you weren’t spotted in France with him. The house phone ringing off the hook, and the messages you had to take from his friends: No, Harry isn’t here. He’s off in France, shooting a movie. And worse of all: I don’t know when he’ll be back.
You had thought you were capable of holding it together until you couldn’t anymore. Closing the door to your bedroom shut, tears begin to cascade down your cheeks until your vision is but a pool of water and the blurry whiteness of the bedsheets. Why didn’t he call?
You didn’t understand. And you didn’t know why you were so confused by this. You said some really shitty things to him, even though he had expressed his strong wishes of doing this for his career, and you totally disregarded him! Maybe it wasn’t he who should be the one to call, but you…
Fingers hovering over the CALL button, you hesitate. What if he doesn’t pick up? And then the logical part of your brain (minuscule, at the moment), tells you that of course he wouldn’t. He’s probably sleeping. Then it hits you. He is most likely to be asleep. Quickly, with no time to waste, you google Dunkirk, France time.
And then you see him.
Well, a picture of him.
Your first reaction is one of happiness. You haven’t seen him for weeks, and even though it’s through a screen, you are relived. He’s not dead (why one small part of you thought he was dead, you don’t know. But he has never gone this long without speaking to you.). And then when you get over your initial reaction, your fingers absent-mindedly click on the link displaying the picture of him, and you suck in a gasp.
Because he’s smiling. It’s a picture of him smiling. Out of all the years that you have known him, you have learned to differentiate his smiles: what he gives the paparazzi and what his joy looks like. This smile–this one that the cameras have captured, is the latter. He’s…. “He’s so happy,” you whisper to yourself. “He’s truly happy.”
And with that, you turn off your phone.
“Goddammit, why hasn’t she called yet?”
“Don’t you think you both are behaving quite childishly?”
Harry stands on the set of his new movie, groaning out loud to himself. He looks up suddenly when he hears a voice answer him back. Cillian Murphy stands there, and repeats, “You both are being children.”
Harry furrows his eyebrows, “What are you talking about?”
The other man sighs, “You and Y/N? Just give her a call. This is ridiculous.”
Harry can’t believe the Cillian Murphy is giving him love advice. “How do you know her name?”
“You’ve been muttering it for about an hour, man.” Cillian rolls his eyes. “Just take it from me and call her. Nothing is worse than the silent treatment.”
“Yeah?” Harry’s thumb hovers over your contact. Cillian nods. “Maybe I will.”
BET YOU HATE ME EVEN MORE NOW.