9th August 2007

It's been more than two weeks since that night, yet I can't get my head to wrap around the dreary aftermath. Everything feels like a whirlpool that changed our lives for good or bad... we'll probably never know. Mia's warning, that she would end all of us once she got a chance, is still very much fresh in my mind. More so, because I saw that storm blazing in her eyes, accompanying the lightning in the sky that night.

I am not surprised, though. We somehow made her fall in love with Archie, and utter those three magical words... all to shatter the warped reality and reveal it was a simple bet. As much as I'd be credited with birthing such evil gambles, it was George who came up with it, a few months back when we were holidaying in Vegas at a casino on Valentines. Archie and Mia had to stay back for this mid term retest, and while George didn't think much of it, I couldn't shake the doubts off.

All it took was a hundred dollar loss and a free incoming of coke and rum to get him to act on his beliefs. Something that cost him almost five times more.

I remember how George said he just couldn't see the girl with a pack of cigarettes in her boyfriend jeans and a stash of coke in her denim jacket, fall head over heels for a guy. I had to disagree. I had seen the way she looked at Archie, when she thought no one else had eyes on her. She had silently begun her quest to part the both of us, so I had to begin mine to make it seem like the dream's coming true.

Only if I had realised that feelings can take birth both ways— that when Archie began maintaining tabs of her relapses and a record of her clean days, it meant something more than just concern.

I got my share of satisfaction when she stood in Daniel's, her mouth gaping open and tears rolling down her cheeks, but also lost it just as easily when Archie and I parted ways. It was long time coming, the differences cropping up ever since me, him, and Kylie, cheered our beers on the bet. Another someone I have lost for good.

At least, I have still got this vanilla frosting to rely on–I suffice and dig a spoon in the snowy swirl, intact on top of my strawberry milkshake. I can't help but look around, observe people chattering and exchanging laughs, while I revel in the company of my own darkness.

I was in no particular mood to leave the house, but apparently, you start to get in your own head if you avoid civilisation for too long. George sent me this crap, and it did get to me, so now I am here. Krasier— a local bakery chain, that's been near my house since the remarkable nineties, and I, guilty of frequenting it since I was still learning the alphabet. I came here with my Dad for the most times, and we ritually raced each other to who can finish their milkshake faster. I always won, or rather he always lost on purpose and faked the biggest pout. To look back, it's one of the very few memories of my childhood that I have still kept safe with me.

I stare back at the tall glass, now left with mere puddles of cream, filled to the brim with frothy pink liquid. Not in the mood, I decide to get it packed for a to-go until someone familiar comes into sight. Harry.

He looks at me at the same time and throws a smile stretching from end to end, almost mischievous in nature. Dressed in a black full sleeved tee, concealing the tattoos stretching across the length of his arms, he leaves it for the spectator to imagine a similar hued ink changing it's course as his muscles do. His dark hair is just as messy as the loose folds of his shirt, and falling all over his forehead; but he doesn't seem to mind the haze. The nearer he comes, the more my nostrils get absorbed by a particularly intoxicating scent. I can't seem to identify it now, and neither could I, that night.

Kylie invited him to Daniel's on thirteenth, introducing him as a long lost friend from England, who is now a musician, on a tour with his band mates in NYC. We ended up talking for a quite a while, until Archie walked in–literal heat ricocheting off of his drunken stature–and got all flustered over our conversation. I'd been certain the whole cafe could feel the tension, let alone our table, but Harry was almost too nice about it. He even went as far as to invite our group to one of his gigs, and some 'Jake' guy, who recognised Mia and joined us at our table.

"Hey! Emma, is it?" Harry looks for an answer, but all I am able to focus is, on how his tongue rolls a little every time he says my name.

"Yeah, still the same," I mindlessly reply, almost reaching to slap my forehead as a chuckle slips off his lips. "You don't forget certain people so easily," he remarks, taking a seat across mine.

"So, how did the good old Brooklyn end up becoming one of your pit stops ?" I ask, since he mentioned that his tour was mostly going to be in central New York parts.

"I was around with a friend, and he needed to grab a bite, so... yeah, that's all," he cracks a smile, probably just as shy as the first time we met. If only I wasn't knee deep in my own shit to notice. "Seems like a nice place," he quickly adds, doing a quick scan of the beige walled confectionery.

"It is," I agree, resting my elbows on the table like my eight year old self did.

"You sure?" He questions, pointing towards my untouched milkshake. I fumble for a decent explanation, "it's too cold, I am just waiting for the ice to water down a bit." My voice trails off at the end, frowning at my poorly conceited lie.

All he does is nod, and for some reason, empties the pockets of his jeans, searching for something. A triumphant smirk and an enclosed fist tell that he's found it, while I continue to wonder. It's only when he unfurls his fingers, that a mini glass bottle slips on the table, stirring some dazed snippets from my abandoned past. Rum.

I don't enquire about the all so familiar drink, but he must be able to see through the evidently questioning look on my face. "This might make your treat better."

I let out a giggle, thinking it is some sort of joke. Except that his straight face doesn't agree, leaving my jaw to drop open in turn. "You are kidding, right?" I ask, just in case.

"Rum and strawberry blend better than you think," he slides it across the table and crosses his arms to his chest.

I gaze at it with narrow eyes as my mind dwindles between the choices. My inner voice is yelling out a big "no way!" but my gut is saying otherwise."If you say so," I let the latter one win and pick up the tiny bottle, pulling it open before pouring the caramel tinted liquid in my milkshake. I give it a quick swirl with the candy cane straw, and pull it towards my mouth after letting out a huffed breath.

Just as it touches my tongue, a quick whiz of strawberry foam comes through, followed by the rum tasting like toasted sugar with a hint of bitterness. "Woah, this shit is actually good," I declare, discarding the straw all together and gulping the entire shake down within seconds.

"Whoa, a little easy there," Harry tries to warn, but I am done with it by then.

"I don't think, strawberry milkshake has ever tasted better than this," I pout at the now empty glass.

"Told you," he proudly states, his stare lasting a little longer this time.

"What happened? Is there something on my face?" I ask, frantically pulling out a bunch of  tissues from the metal stand on the table.

"No, but wouldn't that make up a perfect movie scene?" He laughs, while I fake one out of confusion. As timing would have it, my eyes catch the sight of a sweet sixteen couple– the guy helping the girl wipe off a foam moustache on her lips. I can't tell if my cheeks turn red or pink or whatever colour that's radiating the awkward flaming off of me.

"So, h–how's that concussion now?" He's visibly nervous to bring it up, struggling to make eye contact and yet not nearly as afraid  to let them brim with concern.

"It's much better," I almost reach out for the brownish pink bump on my head, partially hidden by the golden tresses falling over my shoulders. Kylie had offered to pick me up that evening, but stubborn as always, I insisted on coming on my own, vaguely aware of the shit storm waiting by the bay. We said our parting words, I returned that Rolling Stones jacket he'd gifted me, and the next thing I know, my car's firing away at 100 and the deli on the corner is more than just a blur of colours.

Luckily, I hadn't been as far from the cafe and Harry recognised me from across the street. He was kind enough to drive me to the hospital and back home that night, no questions asked. There was no scope for small talk whilst the blue wash of my jeans was staining red, and I'm glad he respected and understood my mess of a situation. "Thanks for that night," I choke out, clearing my throat. The rum has left an aftertaste of burnt espresso and a fuzziness on my tongue.

"It's okay, it was no big deal," he shrugs, nervously rubbing the back of his neck.

An awkward silence follows later, and the only sound to be heard is of the metal of my bracelet clanking on the table, coupled with a not so mild thumping of the sourdough back in the kitchen of the bakery. "I need to..." I begin to say, when he jumps right in.

"Do you have any plans for the day?" He rambles, almost like someone else does, and a humming sound escapes my mouth since I never get to the end of my sentence.

"No, not really," I honestly answer.

"Oh, great then. I mean, my friend and I are going to perform a small charity concert at the park, five blocks away. If you want to come, it would be great, like I said," he blushes a little.

"Right now?" The words tumble out of my mouth, and I go on thinking about it long enough for him to regret ever asking. "Only if you are interested in fusion rock."

I can't help chuckling at his doubt, and it eases him a little. "I would love to," I answer, watching his usually tense shoulders, relax momentarily.

"Alright, then. It begins in a half and hour, so I guess we should head," he gets up from his seat and I do the same, grabbing my phone and clutch. "I am really worried about it, but having a familiar face in the crowd would definitely help."

"I am sure, it will be great. As you said," I sincerely smile and follow him to the little counter stacked with a couple of fresh out of oven hot cross buns and a jug half full of black coffee. He pulls a guy by the collar of his shirt out of the obnoxiously long queue– the guy almost appearing like his long lost brother. Well, leaving aside his lighter blonde hair and a slight stubble unlike Harry's clean shaven look.

"We're getting late, Loser!" Harry snatches the ice layered can of Diet Coke from his hands and shoots a perfect aim for the dumpster. "Emma, Brandon. Brandon, Emma. He is, unfortunately, my partner in crime while navigating through the hustle bustle of the big apple," he sighs, earning a glare from his friend.

"Believe me, it's the other way round," Brandon rolls his eyes, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his boot leg jeans. As opposed to Harry, he is dressed quite formally in a buttoned up white shirt and the golden bangs hair neatly pulled back to the side. Though, he also has a gold chain identical to Harry's dangling around his neck.

I don't know why, but I have a strange feeling that I have seen Brandon somewhere before. Although it's unlikely, because he wouldn't be from New York anyway.

"Let's go now," Harry scolds him and Brandon strides ahead after showing him the finger. I walk beside Harry, trying to control my laughter at their apparent friendly banter.

"You guys have known each other for long?" I ask as we head out on the busy sidewalk.

"Yeah, there are four of us actually. The other two are at the hotel, feeling slightly under the weather. We formed this band when we were twelve. It seemed lame to people, unrealistic almost, but we knew it will stick around with us."

I notice how his eyes light up as he talks about his childhood and how he got into music because of his friends. As much as I intently listen to his stories, my mind wanders off to the broken pieces of my own friendships. I tear my gaze away from Harry, and observe the whiz of cars and he people passing by, all seeming so irrelevant to the bursting bubble of my little world. While doing so, my eyes fixate on a purple pony tail rushing away from my sight.

I stop in my tracks, my shoes screeching on the gravel of the road. "Kylie," I whisper under my breath, a shiver running down my spine as I utter her name.

"What happened?" Harry's voice startles me, and I turn to face him whilst trying to maintain my posture. "You're okay?" He asks, glancing at my shaky hands.

"Yes," I blurt out, grabbing ahold of my hands to keep them sturdy. However, the image keeps haunting me and I try to find a reason to conclude it wasn't true.

Harry nods, even though he barely looks convinced. "If you ever want to talk about, you know, whatever happened that night in the cafe... you can count me in as a listener," he looks at me intently— a breeziness taking over his otherwise sharp features.

"Sure," I nod, feeling less anxious than before.

As we continue walking ahead, my breathing normalises, and I don't have to keep my arms locked sturdy to my chest anymore. It surprises me, the way I was able to mellow it down so easily. Usually, it's only Archie who can help me through it. I can't wait to tell him... I can't tell him.

***

When we reach the park, there's already a huge crowd gathered around the giant set up in the middle of the Oval, as the localities prefer to call it. Some of them are holding up gigantic flyers with Harry and Brandon's faces sketched out on the glaze paper, while the other half is waving the word "Alexites," penned down in bold on the horde of chart papers. It sure is unusual to see the natives scattered across out here, instead of, at the regular tourist trails with their sadistic tour guides. Now that I am witnessing such a huge fan following of their band, I almost feel embarrassed for not having a clue about its existence before he seldom invited us to his performance.

Harry guides me through the mob, leading to the backstage, where a crew dressed in lemon yellow is awaiting their arrival. They rush through the process, helping Harry and Brandon get their mikes attached and set up the necessary equipment out on the stage. The main controller is a short curly haired woman, overlooking the crew and making periodic announcements to the impatient crowd. I can't help but notice how the brown of her skin is glowing in the sky; the golden foil soon turning into a beautiful palette of pink and orange, accompanied by patches of yellow sticking in the spaces.

Harry does a short acoustic gig in the meantime to test the strings of his guitar, and gives a thumbs up to the crew— earning a series of applauses from each one of them. Once they are given a final go by the technicians, the team moves up to the front, leaving the three of us behind the closed curtains. Harry walks up to me with a frown creased on his forehead, which he is probably unaware of.

"You'll be fine," I assure him, and he half smiles, nodding in reply. "I'll go out to the front now. All the best to you and Brandon."

"Thanks," he says in such a low voice, it's almost a whisper.

I wave at him once before joining the exhilarated crowd upfront. A gust of wind passes through the gap between my bare back and the maroon flannel, awakening chills and blowing the flax waves of my hair over to my face. I have to hold them in place to avoid letting the loose tendrils block my view. Even though, he's not even on the stage yet, the nervousness bites me more than it ideally should have.

The people who were dressed in yellow uniforms, come out first and inform the crowd about how the money collected from the concert will be donated towards a children's wellness fund. I now remember that he mentioned it on our first meet— how his mother runs a charity centre in NYC and parts of California.

Soon after thanking the long list of local sponsors, Harry and Brandon step up on the stage as well, making the crowd scream in excitement and chant the word "Alexites" in chorus. I assume it to be their band name and join in with the loud cheers. Harry spots me in the audience and throws a wide grin in my direction— the strumming of his guitar in sync with the smile reaching his eyes.

"I cannot forget when we first met... mhm... I cannot forget how your blush made me smile... I cannot forget the flames around us, and I cannot forget those sapphire eyes..."

I clap along the beats of the country music, immersed into the lines whilst feeling the thumping of my heart tune along the notes he strikes with his calloused fingers on the electric guitar.

The mellow music resonates with the evening breeze so well, that it makes me forget all about the tidal waves threatening at the bay of my unsteady life. Though, nothing lasts too long as they say.

I faze out of the rose tinted glasses when someone nudges my shoulder and makes me look behind briefly. I am quick to dismiss until the paranoia forces me to tilt my head yet again. The air in my throat chokes up to a fuzzy ball as I spot her; laughing out loud and flipping her now unfurled hair. Fuck.

Without giving it a further thought I rush towards her, but end up getting caught in the enthusiasm of a few jumpy admirers. Before I can reach the deli I spotted her at, she heads out of the park in a well knowing haste. She is wearing the same grey sweater she wore that night. I can tell by the faded blood stain on its sleeve.

"Kylie!" I yell amidst the beating drums, and the familiarity of the scene almost makes her turn around, before she strides down the stairs of the park with an unreal pace. I follow her through the horde of people, whose prying eyes stare at me and reward my sprint with weird looks– especially the ones I knock out accidentally. I begin to match up with the dashing of her boots, when she suddenly changes her tracks and flees away in a red Porsche.

I stomp my feet on the ground like my eight year old self did while throwing a tantrum, blaming myself until I spot a rusty bicycle lying unattended on the street. I look away in the distance and find that her car is still not as far as I made it out to be. Hopping on the bicycle, I chase the whiz of red through the narrow streets.

My legs begin to hurt and my breath turns ragged as I struggle to keep up with the car; my grip on the bar handles of the bike slipping off in intervals. The frequent tunnels aren't helping very much either. The task almost seems impossible until she is forced to take a halt at a flashing red light. She gets out of the car and slams the door behind, but takes a little too much time to hide away.

I pull the dust lined brakes of the bicycle, dragging it across the sidewalk as I chase a panting Kylie— her calves probably losing on their will to power through the injury from that night. All the while, my own palms turn sweaty and into a horrifying shade of red, leaving a series of tiny scratches all over my fingers.

It's hurting, but the damage will be more than worth once I catch her. 

The thought barely escapes my mind as I get a hold on her clumsy steps. I jerk the loose sleeve of her knitted sweater, her body tumbling back on the cemented sidewalk. She lets out a groan and struggles to get her vibrant hair out her face. When she finally pulls it aside, I am left dumbstruck to say the least. "You're not Kylie."

"What is wrong with you?" the tanned girl screams, dusting the dirt off of her clothes.

I don't believe my eyes and continue to rub them furiously, but it doesn't change the sight in front of me. I was positive that it was her, that it wasn't just an illusion. Before I can ask her any questions, a loud siren blocks every other sound in the area. I turn to find a cop car pulling in a few feet away from me.

Two policemen leave the car and protrude towards the little mishap I caused in the middle of the road. "We need to arrest you," one of them announces, ready with the metallic cuffs in his hand.

"What? I didn't do anything!" I yell, raging at their audacity.

"You have been caught stealing someone's private property," he points to the obsolete bike lying on the sidewalk. "And violently groping a citizen," he looks at the floundering girl, who couldn't be more oblivious to all the drama happening around the giant headset she had plugged onto her ears.

"Look, I am sure this is nothing but a huge misunderstanding. I wasn't groping this girl per se, I just mixed her up with one of my friends and it lead to a small confusion," I try to convince them of my innocence, but my voice cracks inevitably.

"We still need to charge you for theft," he says coldly and begins to cuff my wrists. I look at them in horror, and feel the wetness of the tears gushing down my cheeks— my fears further entailed by the red of the siren crossing paths with me, almost every two seconds.

The haze in my eyes is accompanied with flash irritation, as a few people gather around and start clicking pictures.

My heart sinks further down at the bare thought of this news leaking across the wide avenues of Manhattan. It will all go down the drain.