I am screaming. I can feel my throat growing hoarse, but I don't actually hear it. All I can hear is my own heartbeat and the thumping music of the club, which continues despite the carnage in the back. The crowd forms a circle around us, the photographer snapping shots the whole time. Fucking vulture.

Harry seems to have lost himself in the repetitive action of hitting Jonas' face. He doesn't respond to anyone or anything; he just keeps hitting him, and I am terrified. Not of Harry. For Harry. If he doesn't stop, he'll kill Jonas, and as much as I would like to spit on his grave, I really don't want to spend the rest of my life visiting Harry in prison. But I would.

Security arrives and pulls Harry off of Jonas. The bigger guard has his arms looped through Harry's and is trying to drag him from the club, but I grab his arm. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"He attacked the other one, so he has to go. The cops are already on their way."

I am shaking my head. "You have it wrong, sir. The other one was about to hit me. Harry stopped him."

The guard looks dubious. "You were screaming for someone to stop him."

"Yes, because I don't want him to go to jail."

"He might be," the guy grunts, and I know Harry is in serious trouble.

"She's giving it to you straight, man." The photographer pushes through the crowd to us. "I have it all on film." He opens the viewer of his large digital camera and scrolls through the photos. I can see the guard's grip on Harry loosening the further along they get, and finally he lets go altogether.

I reach my hand up to Harry's face. He's bleeding from his eyebrow and his bottom lip. I drape my arm around his waist and kiss his cheek. He buries his head in my neck. "I'm sorry," he whispers. My fingers rake through his hair, trying to soothe him.

But my voice is shaky and bitter. "Fuck that. Don't be sorry. He deserved it."

"I agree," the photographer says. I glare at him. "Sorry, I just. I heard what Jonas said to you."

"Thanks for, well, just thanks." I say awkwardly. I look over at the security guard. "Can we go?"

"No, we're going to need you to wait and give a statement to the police."

I look down at Jonas, who is moaning on the floor dramatically, a security guard examining his swollen, blood-stained face. Shit. He will press charges. I know him. I know he will.

I dig my phone out of my little clutch purse and dial my lawyer. "Jack, I need to retain your services for a friend of mine."

"What's going on?"

I detail the fight for him.

"Are the police there yet?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Okay, get out of there. Private security can't hold you unless they place you under citizen's arrest. If the police arrive before you leave, exercise your right to remain silent. Both of you. Do not talk to anyone unless I'm with you. Call me back and let me know what's going on."

I turn to Harry. "Come on, we're leaving."

As we reach the door, the security guard blocks our exit. "I need you to stay, miss."

"You can't actually force us to stay," I answer. He looks uncertain. He knows I'm right, but he is clearly not used to people questioning his authority. "Are you holding him on a citizen's arrest?"

"No."

"Then get out of my way," I growl.

Harry and I exit the club, only to be met by a crowd of cameras. I mean, fuck. The red carpet shut down an hour ago. These are just fucking paparazzi. The incessant click of their cameras and the blinding flashes of light make me dizzy. "What happened in there Maddie? What's going on?"

Normally I would just flip them off. But I need to get Harry out of here. I try to reason with them. "Guys," I say, putting my hand up to block the light, "I've had a rough fucking night. Can you please stop with the flashes?" Surprisingly, the blasts of light cease.

"Why was it rough? What's the story, Maddie? What happened to your boyfriend? Why is he bleeding?" They follow us until we reach the valet stand.

Harry pulls the ticket from his pocket and hands it over. "Shit," he says quietly. "Liam's suit is torn."

"It's okay. I'll buy him a new one. I'm more worried about your face."

He grumbles, "Fucking Jonas should be worrying about his fucking face."

"Fucking Jonas's face is going to be written right off the fucking show," I retort. My car pulls up, and Harry makes for the driver's side. I rest my hand on his chest. "I'll drive, Harry."

I hold Harry's hand in mine as I drive home, taking the fastest route up dark residential streets. My hands are shaking. Shit, my whole body is shaking as the adrenaline from the conflict starts to fade. When I get out of the car in my driveway, I have to lean against the door and take off my high heels because I don't trust my wobbling legs to carry me safely inside. I'm still resting my back against the car when Harry comes around. His eye and lip are swelling, and his hand is cut to shit. I just want to hold him. I want to cradle his fucking bruised and beautiful face in my hands and tell him I love him.

But I don't. I keep my mouth shut, reaching out for his undamaged hand to lead him inside. I take him back to my bathroom and pull the shredded coat from his shoulders. I really hope that suit didn't have any sentimental value for Liam. I push Harry to sit on the small stool that rests before my vanity. He starts to unbutton his white shirt, with great difficulty, so I place my hand on his shoulder. "I'll do it." He leans back against the counter and closes his eyes. My hands are still shaking. I'm not doing any better than he was. Finally, I give up and say, "lean forward." I tug the shirt out of his belted pants and slide it up over his head. He recoils in pain when the shirt catches on his hand. "Sorry," I murmur against his hair, planting a kiss. I dampen a soft washcloth with warm water. Standing with his leg between mine, I wipe the blood from his eyebrow, lip, and knuckles, whispering more sorries and leaving more kisses as I go.

He wraps his arm around my back, his battered hand resting on my hip. I lean down and kiss his split lip gently. He reaches out that tattooed arm and pulls at my hair, kissing me deeper. He tastes like blood. His right hand slides down my hip to my thighs, skimming along the hem of the dress. I pull away, straightening my spine. He jerks his hand away, but I reach down and put it back along with his other hand, closing his fingers around the hem. He is wide-eyed, like a child, as he whispers, "are you sure?"

"I will let you take this dress off of me, but that's all." I whisper back, kissing him. I pull on his elbows for him to stand, and he lifts the dress as he does. I raise my arms so he can take it off over my head. I am left in my lacy boyshorts and a light gray backless silk slip, almost sheer enough to see everything. He runs his fingertips down my arms, staring into my eyes. That fucking beautiful green, intense eye contact that makes my frozen heart melt. His hands caress my bare back, up, down, across. He kisses me again, pushing me against the counter and moving his tongue around mine slowly, smoothly. His large hands slide forward, cupping my breasts, the nipples peaking against the flimsy material. I pull his hips tight against me, and I feel myself sliding toward something I'm not ready for.

"Harry, stop," I am breathless and desperate. I place my hands on his cheeks, finding his dimple with my finger. "We need to put some ice on your face."

He skims his hand down my stomach. "Will you sleep in this tonight?" I nod. He kisses me again. I pull away when I taste blood again. "Where are you going? Come back," his words come out slow and low, and it is so fucking hot. I don't even know how to handle how I'm feeling right now.

"I'm going to get you some ice."

"Stay there for just a second, so I can memorize how you look right now." He grips himself through his pants, gazing at me. Holy Jesus. I gape at him, my face burning. Is he fucking kidding me?

I look for something to throw at him that won't hurt. I choose a box of Kleenex, and it bounces off his shoulder. He laughs, "don't worry, I'll clean up."

I groan, turning to leave the room. I grab my phone and call Karen as I walk to the kitchen. "Karen, I want Jonas gone."

"What? Why?"

"You haven't seen the news," I say clicking on the entertainment channel. As expected, videos of me and Harry leaving the club, police cars, and Jonas roll on a loop. "I'll explain another time. Just, make it happen. I can't work with him anymore. He's gotta go, or I will quit and take the contract penalties. You can even tell Mitch I'll come back for part of next season."

"How many episodes?" She sounds excited.

"I don't know. Half?"

"I'll tell them three. Then if you do half, it'll be a fucking gift."

"Thanks, Karen." I remember the photographer. "Oh, and there was a photographer there tonight from the magazine, the sponsor. Josh something. He has pictures of everything that happened."

"Jesus." I know she has the tv on now. "I'll find him."

"Good, he was cool. He helped me. Maybe your PR folks can find a way to get the right version of events out there?"

"You got it. Send me, like an outline or a timeline of what happened."

"I'll try," I answer. I don't want to waste my weekend with Harry on this, but I need to make sure he is protected. Lord knows what bullshit Jonas is already spewing.

I call Jack next. "Hey, Jack."

"Hi, are you all right?"

"Yeah, we left, and we're at my house. What do we do now?"

"I'll come by tomorrow to meet your friend--"

"Boyfriend."

"Boyfriend. And you'll both tell me what happened. Then, if it will be in your and his interest, we'll give a statement to the police."

"Okay, thank you. Around noon?"

I grab a couple bags of frozen peas and walk down the hall, hoping that Harry is finished... with what he implied he was going to do. How long does that even take? I start to imagine. Fucking hell. My stupid brain. Harry is sitting against the headboard in nothing but a fresh pair of boxers, his hair wet from a shower. I walk around the bed to hand him the peas. "Are you all set, then?" I gesture up and down his body.

He runs his hand over the thin fabric of my slip. "Mmhmm." I move his hand to rest on his stomach and set the peas on his knuckles, the other on his eye. He whines, "You're no fun."

"You're too much fun," I answer, grinning. "You need to leave the ice on your eye. This other one, put it on your lip in awhile."

"It's not ice," he says grumpily. "It's peas."

"Same thing." I push his hair out of his face and kiss his forehead. He pulls me onto his lap, and kisses my forehead.

He runs his finger over my lips, his tone darkening. "What did he say to you?"

"I was sure you heard, the way you were hitting him."

He shakes his head. "He fucking raised his hand to you." His heated voice lowers, "I wanted to kill him."

"I know." I shift so that I can lay against his chest. I can't look into those piercing green eyes and say this. I can already feel my chin wobbling in that fucking awful, about-to-cry-but-I'm-holding-it-in sort of way. "Basically, he said it was my fault that my brother killed himself." Tears start to pour from my eyes. Fuck.

Harry holds me tighter. "Baby, oh my baby." He kisses my head. I cry harder, my whole body shaking. I have never felt so fragile. I am starting to miss the wall of pretend that has kept me sheltered all these years. Except that I wouldn't have these arms around me. He whispers into my hair, over and over, "It's not your fault. It's not your fault," until I fall asleep.

Waking up with Harry's limbs tangled with mine is the best way to wake up. To see his sleeping face, like an adorable little boy, with his mouth pushed to the side by the force of the pillow on his cheek. Oh, his mouth. The cut on his lip is caked black, dried blood crumbling onto the sheet. His eye looks worse today than yesterday. The skin around the cut has gone from pink to a disturbingly dark shade of purple. But at least the swelling has subsided. I run my fingers through his soft, curly hair tenderly. Is it normal to fall in love so fast? So completely?

He shuffles around in the bed at my touch but doesn't seem to wake. I run my long nails down his back lightly. Am I trying to wake him? I don't know. I don't know what the hell I'm doing, pretty much ever. I shake my head and move to get up for a swim. "Don't stop." I lay back on my side and continue trailing my fingers across his skin. I use my long forefinger nail to spell his name. Then mine. Then a heart. His body shakes with silent laughter. I kiss his back, the back of his neck. I love you.

"I'm going to swim for a bit," I whisper against his ear. "Go back to sleep, love."

The water is a little cooler now that we are deep into October, but it gives me some clarity. I keep wanting to tell him I love him. And I am trying to be true to myself. But common sense tells me two weeks is too soon. And my deeply damaged soul tells me this love is probably unrequited. I don't even know what love is. Maybe this is how normal people are around people they just care about. Maybe what I feel is just physical attraction and friendship. Maybe I'm a fucking idiot.

I climb out of the water, shaking my head to get water out of my ears, and freeze on the top step. He's sitting on the edge of my bed, watching me through the French doors. His fingers are pinching his mouth, like he did the night of the showcase. Like he's hiding a smile. He shakes his head, walks to the door, and pulls it open.

"Madelyn Turner," he exhales. I don't think I've ever heard him use my full name. He steps out onto the stone patio, languidly moving towards me, the muscles of his abdomen rippling gently under his skin. My pulse and breathing accelerate in contrast with his slow movements. I'm still standing with one foot in the pool, like a fucking idiot. Well, didn't we decide that I was? When he's finally close enough, he runs one hand back along my wet hair, and cradles my face with the other. "You." He kisses me. "Are so." Kiss. "Beautiful." Kiss.

I encircle him in my arms. And lean back. I come up laughing, Harry spluttering. He flips his hair back and dives after me. I squawk, but I don't try to get away. I mean, I want to be caught. He bites my hip under the water, just a pinch, then surfaces in front of me. I run one hand over his head and poke his dimple with the other. "You." I kiss him. "Are so" kiss. "Gonna drown." I push his head under, and he pulls me with him, his arms hooked around my waist. I should probably learn how to take a compliment. Bubbles of laughter float to the top, and we follow right behind.

He moves us back against the wall of the pool and slides the strap of my one-piece suit so it hangs off my shoulder. I pinch my arm to my side to keep myself covered, shivering against the cool tile, and his eyes slide down to my chest, which is heaving from my lack of breath. He kisses along the seam of the suit, just brushing his lips against the top of my breasts. I think I might pass out. My breathing becomes shallower with each kiss, and I am getting light headed.

"We," I breathe, "need to get out." Breathe. His eyes shoot to mine with concern.

"Are you hyperventilating?"

"Maybe."

"Seriously?" He frowns.

"This is what you do to me."

He lifts me out of the water and onto the edge of the pool, as if I am a leaf lifted by the breeze. He pulls himself up next to me, then helps me stand. He wraps me in the towel on the table by the door, kissing my head. "Lightweight," he chuckles. I smack his chest. "Ahh. Shit, Maddie. You don't even know your own strength."

"Shit!" I see the electric glow of my alarm clock. It's 11:30 already. How fucking long was I lost in my thoughts in the damn pool? Jack is going to be here in half an hour. "My lawyer is going to be here soon. We need to get dressed."

"Lawyer?"

"Yeah." He just stares at me. "Harry, Jonas could press charges."

"But I was defending you." His voice is so sweet, so beautifully innocent.

I kiss him. I mean, I kiss him like I want him to feel everything I feel. When I disconnect our lips, his eyes glitter with amusement and confusion. "He can still try to have you arrested. You need someone to advocate for you, to make sure the asshole doesn't succeed."

Harry's expression darkens, and it's like the full realization of last night, of all of my fucked up life is hitting him all at once. We hurry and get dressed, skipping a shower to rinse off the chlorine. It's just going to have to wait. And promptly at twelve, Jack knocks on the door. He and Harry exchange introductions, and I lead them both into the tv room. Jack asks to speak to Harry alone, so I leave them and go back to the bedroom, where I call Mitch, who's left me five messages.

"Jesus, Maddie. Are you all right? Is your friend?"

"Mitch, all I want to hear right now is that you have found a suitably gruesome way to kill off Drew." (Jonas' character).

"Dead." I love this man. "Now, are you guys okay?"

"We will be. Can you believe the fucking week I'm having?"

"Two," he counters. I use the calculator app on my phone quickly.

"Nine hundred and something."

He laughs. "Will you really come back next year?"

"I told Karen I would."

"I told her we would fire him either way." God dammit. I'm fucking crying again. I love this man. He is the closest thing to a father I have ever known.

"Mitch," I whimper against my hand. "You're. I. Fuck."

I can hear his subdued laughter through the line. "I know, Maddie."

"I'll come back as often as I can, whatever will fit in my schedule. I promise. Oh, and Mitch, Harry's my boyfriend." He laughs again as I hang up.

My boyfriend, who I have dragged into a total fucking tornado of shit. I find myself biting at the skin around my nails, a habit I thought I had kicked. I am so nervous for Harry. God, if he goes to jail, even for an hour, over this, because of me... I don't know what I would do.

Harry stands in the doorway watching me. "Jesus. You scared me," I gasp.

"Jack wants to talk to both of us, now." He stretches that tattooed arm out toward me.

We walk back to the front of the house with our fingers laced together, and he squeezes mine when I begin to shake a little. Fuck. I need to pull my shit together. Jack doesn't have much to say to me, except to ask if I was afraid of Jonas in the moment he raised his hand. I purse my lips, considering the question. Did I really believe he would hit me? Hurt me? "Yes," I finally answer. He nods to us both and says that the questions he reviewed with us are the only ones we should answer for anyone, even the media. Especially the media. And never without him there. He stands to leave.

"Thanks for coming," Harry shakes his hand. "I really appreciate your advice."

"This will likely be a non-issue based on everything you've both told me. I don't think you should worry for now."

And with that he leaves.

Harry and I hold each other in a tight, silent embrace for several minutes. I'm fucking shaking again. God dammit. "I'm sorry," I shiver against him.

"For what?"

"Everything."

"You love that word." He scratches my hair. "Let's figure out some food. Legal troubles make me hungry."

We end up ordering in way too much Thai food, and spend the rest of the weekend cuddled in my bed watching movies and eating mushroom chicken, spicy pineapple beef, pad Thai, and veggie spring rolls with this tangy, sugary syrup. Fucking delicious. And of course, making out. Just PG-13 delicious.

I get a text from Mitch on Sunday night saying that this week's taping has been delayed until next week for rewrites. Best. News. Ever. I can stay in bed with Harry all morning tomorrow. And we do. We laze in bed, cuddled together like our bodies were originally one piece that has become separated by some prehistoric catastrophe. Like the idea of Pangaea, how some people think the continents were all together once, and then drifted apart, shattered by several rifts. Well I don't like that part of the comparison. I will be a shattered rift if he drifts away.

He flips through the channels lazily, pausing when he sees a still shot of us leaving the club, his face bloody and my face stony. "Did you know about this?"

"That we were headline news? Yeah."

He turns the volume up on the panel discussion.

A washed-out actress throws up her hands, "What is it with child stars? I mean, what is it that leads them all down this path of self-destruction? Is it Hollywood? Is it parenting? Being too rich too young?"

"I think you've got something with that last point," chimes in the ditzy blonde who rose to fame by marrying a basketball player and participating in shitty reality shows. "These kids get a sense of entitlement that they can do whatever they want whenever they want."

Harry looks at me, concern etched in the lines of his forehead. "Are they talking about you?"

I shrug, "probably."

"I mean, what's next, is Maddie going to shave her head or throw things out of hotel windows?" the snarky comedienne compares me to other child stars who have gone off the deep end.

"Me," I frown. "Just turn it off."

"How do you deal with this constant criticism?"

"Not very well, obviously," I straddle his lap, resting my hands on the thick folds of muscle on his chest. "For most of my life, I've pretended to be fine. Now, I'm either crying, confessing family secrets, smashing phones, or slapping my ex."

"Wait, ex?"

"Yeah, Jonas and I were sort of a thing for awhile, back when I was drinking all the time." I run my finger nails over the birds under his collarbone.

"But you said he had never kissed you outside of the show."

"Hence the sort of. I didn't even let him hug me, or touch me in anyway, really." I frown again. "I didn't like to be touched at all. By anyone."

He sits up and folds his arms around me, our foreheads pressed together. "Why?"

I kiss him. He can't be this close to my lips and not be kissed. "It was foreign. I grew up in a violent, cold home with shitty parents and a broken brother. This is all very new to me." I kiss him again.

"You amaze me, Maddie." He puts his head on my shoulder. "You are so sweet, so strong. So fucking funny. In the face of all that shit."

"Thanks." I kiss the side of his head. "I don't want to burst this bubble we've been living in, but I have class in twenty minutes."

He groans, but we both shift off the bed and get ready for school. My classes speed by in a flash of lectures and rumors, and at the end of the day, I meet Harry for a quick dinner before he has to work. The rest of our week goes by much the same, thankfully with no word from the police.

Friday morning, I drive over to Dr. Kline's office for my therapy appointment. And the good lord knows I need it. Her office is modern, with straight-lined sofas and chairs, glass tables and very little clutter. To some, it might read as cold. But for me, it allows my mind to be clear and focused.

"You've been in the media a lot lately," she crosses her legs and rests her notepad against it. "How do you feel about that?"

"I don't know. Fuck. I'm fucking frustrated. I like being the real me. I like people seeing me for who I really am. But I hate the people who say it's all an act or a lie, or talk shit about me without knowing me."

"Do you hate the people, or do you hate their words?"

"The words, and sometimes also the people."

"What can you control in this situation? What are you, Madelyn Turner, actually able to change."

I shrug. "None of it. Me." She nods so subtly I almost don't see it. "I can only change what I say or do. Maybe, how I feel about it."

"Okay, so what will you do differently, if anything, in these situations in the future?"

I close my eyes and think about that question for a long time. "Nothing."

"All right, so then we need to find some strategies for you to cope with the things people say that hurt you. One thing you can do is focus on the work you've been doing to let your guard down and be more true with people." I am shaking my head at her. "I know it seems counter-intuitive that you would make yourself more vulnerable under criticism. But our goal--your clearly stated goal--is for you to become comfortable enough with yourself, your true self, that people's comments won't hurt you as much anymore."

She gives me the time to consider her words. Finally, I ask, "what else? What else can I do?" I know I sound as desperate as I feel.

"You can listen to the people who already know your true self, instead of listening to the people who don't know you. Who do you trust to be honest with you?"

My heart says Harry, right away. Mitch. "Mitch," I tell her. "Mitch is always honest with me. He's always there for me. He doesn't let me get away with shit. But he always protects me. And Jenna. I trust Jenna."

"Good," she nods. She knows. She fucking knows there's more. "Anyone else?"

"And Harry, but I'm scared." My voice cracks, and I'm fucking crying now. Fuck. Fuck. Fucking fuck. I hate this fucking shit.

"What are you scared of?"

"That he'll leave me. That my shit life is too fucked up, and that I'm not worth it."

She lets those fears just hang in the air between us for awhile. "Has he ever given you a reason to think he will leave?"

No. He's just been there, helping me through all this shit. Time and time again. Why the fuck would he do that? "No, but I've given him plenty of reasons to leave."

"Like what?"

"Like all of this shit. All of the drama," I wave my hand around in the air in front of me.

"Be specific. What have you done," she points at me, "that you think will make him leave?"

I can't think of a fucking thing. I... I shake my head. "I don't know. I'm just terrified. I don't want to lose him."

"He's important to you." I nod, even though it wasn't a question. "You said you trust him. Tell me what he has done to earn your trust, which we both know is not easy." We both chuckle. It took me almost a year to trust her, really trust her.

I think back over the two months that I've known him, the three weeks since we first kissed. He has seen through my façade. And he has survived my bullshit, and even though he got a bit scraped up along the way, he stayed. He has encouraged me to be myself. "He told me to be myself when I went on those talk shows. To show my true self to the world."

"And how did that build trust for you?"

"I guess because it was in line with my own goals, what I want for myself." She is nodding. "And because I felt like he could see the real me."

"Anything else?"

"He probably doesn't even realize it, but before all the shit with my mom went down, he helped me... I don't know, like try to be nicer to her."

Her eyebrows raise in surprise. "How did that go?"

"It was good until she fucked it all up." I almost shout again.

"Okay," she rests her notepad on the table. "I want you to focus on your current goal. Be yourself. Be true to you. Focus on what you can control. But for now, time's up."

Of course it fucking is. I should have booked a double fucking session. We didn't even get into the shit with my mom.

After the stupid fucking therapy appointment, I drive over to campus. I am meeting Harry and the guys at the music room so we can go out for Halloween tonight. We have our costumes all planned out, with the help of Lou and Becca, who will be joining us tonight, along with Jenna and Mitch. As I walk down the tree-lined path towards the music building, my shoes keep squeaking, so I stop at a bench to retie my converse.

"Maddie?" A timid voice calls my name. I turn to see a small, mousy girl around my age. "I'm sorry to bother you. I just wanted to tell you how much you inspire me." I stare at her blankly, her choice of words throwing me off. Smile. I am genuinely smiling at the sweet girl, now, but I just don't get why I would be anyone's inspiration.

"Thank you. What's your name?"

"Jessica."

"Thanks, Jessica. Do you want a picture?"

She nods shyly, and I step closer, so we can take a selfie in front of a large tree. As she reaches her phone out in front of us, I see a fat scar on her wrist, and I feel tears rising in my eyes. Fuck all this crying. I wrap my arms around her, pressing my cheek to hers as she clicks the button. The camera caught my tear escaping. "Thank you," she murmurs, and I hug her tightly. She relaxes against me, small sobs shaking her. When we break the embrace, I sit with her for awhile and she tells me about her struggles with depression, her two suicide attempts. She tells me that she has always loved my show but my admission on the late night show shocked her. She has a little brother, and he's been the thing that has kept her here, fighting to survive. Fuck. Fuck. I start to cry, thinking of my brother. I wasn't enough to keep him here. I wonder if anything would have been. I tell her she has to fight for herself, not just for him. She says she will. As we stand to leave, I ask her to tweet me the picture of us. She does, right away. I follow her and retweet the picture. This girl has made these last few shitty weeks worth it.

(favorite THEN moments vs NOW moments and why?)