(Author's note: first, please vote and comment and share. Second, I recently revised the early chapters of this book, including taking out the references to real songs in this chapter. I have replaced those lyrics with my own. Not that I write songs. Finally, the pic is from the Rose Bowl 9-12-14).

"You looked like a slut," my mother says to me when I finally answer her call. It has been a week and a half since the Emmys, and I have avoided her for a reason. "That dress was too short. I mean, the people in the front row could probably see all your lady parts while you were on stage."

"Mother, I was wearing underwear. My vagina was not on display, I assure you." Her shocked gasp satisfies something in me. Why is the use of the scientific term so controversial, anyway?

"It was way too revealing, and come on, not at all for your body type."

"My body type?"

"If you would just lose that last ten pounds..."

I hang up on her. I can't listen to another lecture about how fat I am from my crazy mother. She doesn't even know how much I weigh, for gods sake, to know whether I need to lose ten pounds.

A rerun of "The Fashion Police" agrees with my mother, the host complaining from the tv in my kitchen about the length, cut, and color of my dress. She hated my hair and make up (which were mild and understated compared to the dress, and which I'm sure will devastate Lou). The only thing she liked was the jewelry. I really wish I didn't own a tv right about now. I consider smashing it when the pink-haired young Brit on the panel jumps in in my defense.

"I disagree with you completely. I loved her dress. She's one of my best dressed of the night. I thought it was young, and fun, and it really made a statement." Her accent makes me think of Harry.

"What statement is that? Open for business?" I guess it was a little too harlot for her taste.

The other panelists laugh. People are always fucking laughing at my expense. When I am the one delivering the jokes, I like a laugh. Even if it is at my own expense. But it drives me fucking crazy when people, like my professor and fashion pundits, take such cheap shots.

"No," the Brit bites back. "It says, I'm an adult. I'm not a kid anymore. Take me seriously." Yes.

"I guess that's why she's leaving the show," the host says sarcastically. And I feel a twist in my gut that might be regret, but I can't quite tell. "She just used that show as a springboard for her career." I am disgusted. This show is my whole career. How is nine fucking years a springboard?

They move on, arguing about which nerd from "The Big Bang Theory" was nerdiest. I love that show, and I think it should have won. But we beat them again, for the fourth straight year.

I can't take it anymore. I need to get out, to run. To run past his house. Shut up, I am jogging down to Sal's. It's a Sal's kind of night. Every night, frankly, is a Sal's kind of night. Especially since he started working there. Shut up. As I approach the boys' duplex, I see Louis and Zayn in the yard kicking a soccer ball around. Just as I pass the intersection before their place, Louis kicks the ball hard, and it heads straight for my face. I put my arms up to block it, or catch it, or I don't know, anything that will stop it from hitting me in the eye. It bounces off my forearm and back to Louis, who tucks it under his arm.

"Hi, Zayn. Louis." Zayn grins at me with those twinkling dark eyes, but he doesn't speak.

Louis steps closer, calling, "Sorry about that, Maddie. I usually wait until I've known a girl longer before I hit her in the face with my balls."

Jesus. I laugh so hard tears leak from the corners of my eyes.

"Yeah," I take a deep breath to stop laughing, "At least buy me a banana split first," I joke. Harry gets up from a chair on the porch and walks into the apartment with a scowl on his face. "Is he all right?"

"Dunno," Louis shrugs and goes back to his kick around with Zayn.

I jog up the path to their front steps and hear Harry inside, shouting at someone. I pause with one foot on the bottom stair and listen.

"Just go comfort your fucking girlfriend. Louis nearly hit her with a soccer ball."

"What's your fucking problem, Haz?" Liam.

"Nothing. I'm just sick of hearing you go on about this girl. Maddie this. Maddie that. You act like you know her or something. You don't know shit about her."

"Right, and you do?"

"No. Nobody does. She's fake. She's an actress. Every moment of her life is pretend."

"She's nice. She's really nice to us. Why would she bother to pretend to be nice to us? What can she possibly gain from that?"

"I don't know. She can't be rude to a fan. I mean, mate, you're a blubbering idiot whenever she's around. She probably can't stand it. Remember her face when those girls asked to take a picture with her?"

I turn and run. I run back up the hill. I run for home. And I almost make it before the tears roll down my face. At my driveway, I lean over against my knees and try to catch my breath, but it's so hard when the heaving sobs shaking my body are crushing my lungs.

He's right. He's absolutely right. I am a fake. A phony. Holden Caulfield would hate my guts and call me a prostitute. (Like, there's a line, dude. Wait your turn. Plenty of other people to hate me and call me a whore before you. Of course, my mother is at the front of that line.)

I breathe and move into my house, taking deep gulps of air and swallowing away my tears with cool water from the fridge.

He's wrong, too, though. The times I've spent with these boys, however brief, have been some of the most genuine in my life. I have laughed, real bursts of uncontrolled laughter. I have smiled, real from-my-soul smiles. I am myself. Just me. No acting. Even when I hugged Liam, it wasn't fake. I chose to step into his arms because it would make him happy. Normally, I just stand near fans. Even with people who are sort of my friends, like Brandon, I just high five. Or the cast of "Turning Pages," I just do the one-arm over the shoulder, side-to-side hug, like when you pose for a picture.

I don't know why I feel like myself, my true self, when they're around. Maybe it's the fucking accents throwing me off.

But in any case, I hate that they're arguing over me. And I hate that Harry called me Liam' girlfriend. What if Liam actually likes me like that? I would hate to hurt him. I think he's really sweet. Cute, even. But I don't get a swoop in my stomach when I see him. And I don't spend hours picturing his face. Fuck you, Harry.

Ultimately, I don't have time for any of this bullshit. I have to find something to eat now that I'm not going to Sal's. Lord knows when I'll be going back to Sal's after everything Harry said. And I have to rehearse my songs for the showcase on Friday, just a couple of days away. And I have to rewrite my screenplay, which was ripped to shreds by the professor (and rightly so, I might add. It was shit.).

I settle for pizza, and take a quick shower while I wait. After I've consumed most of a large pizza alone, I turn to my beloved piano. I run through the three songs our group will be playing. A couple of days ago, we had to come up with a band name for the flyers. Brandon, in typical fashion, suggested we use my name, but I immediately shot that idea down.

"No way. We're not going to be Maddie Turner and the TurnUps. Forget it."

"But these songs are yours. They're you," Dave actually argued in favor of Brandon's dumb idea. "What if we find a way to use just your last name?"

I shook my head over and over again.

Finally, Leah chimed in, "what if we made use of your initials. MT."

"Empty," I said back. "Good evening ladies and gentlemen. We are Empty." I loved it.

Dave clapped his hands and chuckled. "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

After a night of strange dreams with wet feet for hands and a feeling of being unprepared for school, I wake up way too early for my call time on set. I go in even though I'm half an hour early. My day there is pretty typical, except for one thing: the small pile of flyers advertising the showcase that I hand out to my fake tv family, to Lou, to Mitch, and to the rest of the crew. The show is in two days, but they all assure me they'll be there, all with a look of complete shock. Is it shock that I have invited them to something? Or shock that I am in a music show? I'm not sure. But I really want them there. The songs are for them. They are my way of saying all the things I can't seem to say face to face. My thank you for the last nine years. My goodbye.

I am not inviting my mother. She wouldn't come even if I did, but I can't stand her criticism, especially about something that I am already so uncertain of. I have literally only sung in front of three people, played piano for four. This could be a monumental disaster. What the fuck am I thinking?

The rest of this day and the next pass in a haze of classes and rehearsals, and before I know it, the Friday night showcase is upon us. I cannot stop shaking as I get dressed. I have four or five outfits scattered over my bed, and I just don't know what to wear. I call Leah.

"Maddie, you all right?"

"Yeah. I mean, no, I'm freaking out, but..." I breathe. Breathe. "What are you wearing?"

"These kind of creepy phone calls only work if I don't know who's calling."

"Ha. Ha," I smile at her easy joke, no longer as close to panic as I was a moment ago. "Seriously, though."

"Jeans and a T-shirt."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks. I'll be there to get you guys in about twenty minutes."

I stare at my reflection in gray skinny jeans and a lilac, almost see-through T-shirt. This is what I wear when I am alone, when I go to class. When I am me. I brush my hair out and knot it at the base of neck, not needing a hairband or pin to hold it in place. I add a bit of pink to my lips, and head out.

Dave and Brandon load the instruments into the back of my Range Rover, and we head over the small hill to the club where the showcase is being held.

"I thought you said it was at the coffee house by school," Brandon whines.

"I saw the flyer there. The actual show is at The Gypsy Tavern."

"Shit." Brandon runs his hands through his dirty blond hair. "That place is huge. Are we ready for that?"

Why does he choose this moment to voice my fears? My arms are trembling so severely that Dave reaches over and rests his hand on mine to help me steer.

"We are ready. You know we are," he says calmly. "It's gonna be great."

We pull into the lot and load out our equipment. "Empty" is second on the schedule. I wish we were first. I want to get it over with. I want to run away. I want to hide. Why why why did I decide to do this? I can't even blame this on anyone else. I saw the stupid fucking flyer. I searched out my bandmates. I wrote the fucking songs. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I can't focus on the act before us. I don't know whether they are any good. I don't care. My focus is on the crowd collecting at the round tables right in front of the stage. There are Jenna, Sam, Dylan, and Samantha. My tv family. Mitch, Cal, Simon, and the rest of the production team. A table of our writers. Lou and Becca, our wardrobe girl. Pretty much all of "Turning Pages" is sitting front and center. Except Jonas, of course. I didn't invite my tv love interest. He's an asshole. The only boy who has ever kissed me. Oh, but he would like the world to think there was more to it, to us.

The MC announces the next act, Empty, and we move out onto the stage. Brandon carries out his cello and the keyboard, setting it up right in front. Dave takes his guitar and violin across and past the baby grand piano already on stage. Leah taps the drums lightly to get a feel for a foreign set. I sit at the piano and move the mic closer to my mouth. Dave nods at me, prompting me to start, but I can't.

I sit in the silence and stare at my shaking hands frozen a few inches above the keys. Then I hear Sam. "Woo!" I glance over at him and smile, a real smile, a nervous smile, and I begin to play. It's just the piano at first. Just me pressing keys. The mournful keys to the left, sad and a little off. Then it's piano and me. Singing, describing our tv house.

Dave pushes the mic still closer, and whispers, "look at me if you need to."

I nod, but stare at a wall behind the audience as I continue to sing, "Silence as my bearing walls, agony as my dusty floors. You built me up, built it all...showed me the light beyond the doors." I hope they know that they are the light beyond the doors. That they built me back up.

I close my eyes in the chorus when I sing the word "leave." I don't want to. I have to. Please understand. I can't be this tv version of me anymore. When I open my eyes to stare at the wall again, Harry is leaning there, with his arms folded across his chest. I look away, my heart thudding so loud I think the mic might pick up the sound. Dave smiles at me encouragingly, and I plaster on a fake smile.

As I continue the next verse, I keep staring at my now-occupied blank wall. I just know he stood there on purpose. It is the most natural place to look, with the angle of the piano, and the sarcastic, rebellious soul in me wants to stare him down. But I am raw with fear and loss, and I am not strong enough. I look down at my hands.

"He was that shady tree, branches breaking from the weight of the leaves, the roots clawed deep in the ground that always held me down," I barely get through the lines, swallowing the last word to swallow back tears. I am picturing that tree, and he is the root that still holds me down. "Hold on tight so you know I'll never leave... I'll never leave."

Brandon adds staccato cello to my rumbling piano. Dave's violin is smooth, and there is just the faintest thump of bass drum. And then it's over. And I have made it through the first song. They are cheering. I can't look, or I will cry. No, sob.

"Thank you," I murmur, my voice husky. "That was called 'Rebuild This Home.' And this next one is called 'Begin.'"

Brandon has moved to the keyboard, Dave has switched to his electric guitar, and thankfully this song starts with all of us together, and I don't feel so alone. The tempo is faster, and even though it has moments that make me emotional (just singing the word brother is hard, so hard), it's a song about survival, about getting through the hard times. And this is not a hard time, so I can do this. I can do this. "Begin for future, your family, your friends. Begin even though it still feels like the end."

I glance at Dave and Leah as we move into the rousing chorus. I am smiling around the words. A real smile. I cast my eyes to the wall, to Harry. This song is about strength. I stare at him as I sing. "It's time to begin, to move forward and live. Leave the ghosts who will choke you in the shadows so dim. I'll never give in. Begin."

My favorite is the last verse, and I am singing so loud, my whole body moving as I pound the keys of this piano, that I almost forget where I am. Even my hair cannot be restrained, falling from the bun I knotted it in earlier. "It's time to begin, even only to crawl. Just keep moving on, and you'll see that you're strong. Don't ever give in. Begin." And I have tears rolling freely down my cheeks now because he never found that strength. He gave in. But I will not.

It is silent at first when we finish. And then clapping. Not cheering like the first one. Just loud, thunderous clapping. I wipe my cheeks and chance a glance at the crowd. My tv family is on its feet. I shake my head.

The next one has a reference to my brother in it too. I need to lighten things up, or I won't get through it. I clear my throat. "This next one is called 'So Now What?,' which is what my therapist always says." I get a good chuckle from the crowd.

I wrote the poem originally from the first person perspective. Leah suggested that it would be more powerful if we used "you" instead. She's right. It's so much better this way. "you need the shelter of his love, his bracing arms above." And easier to sing the line, "But your childhood home is just rubble and bones, so now what?" It still comes out a croak.

But the song is really about needing to move on. To find my own way apart from the show. But will these people who have been such a huge part of my life still be there? Will my tv mom still love me, as I believe she does? When I'm no longer her tv daughter, will she still keep me safe? Or will she give me away as I fear, as I sing?

Will my fans stick by me? Maybe I shouldn't care whether my fans still love me once I'm off the show. But I do care. As my therapist says, though, (literally, she says it all the time) "okay they don't, so now what?" I can't change what others do. I can only control myself. I have to be okay even if they don't love me anymore.

For the last song, I have to move to the keyboard right at the front of the stage. Oh, god. I can see everyone. I can see the tears streaked down Lou and Jenna's faces. Even Sam has red eyes. Harry is not against the back wall anymore. I scan the crowd and see the rest of his band. But where is he? I look among the tables up front, and there he is. Right below me. Dead center of this stupid keyboard.

"Wow. I can really see all of you from here. I'm going to try not to panic," I widen my eyes as if I already have. I almost have. They give me the laugh I need to continue. "Before we do this last song, let me introduce the band. On cello and keyboard and tambourine and glockenspiel--wait, did I miss anything?" Brandon shakes his head, laughing. "Brandon Carter. And behind us on drums we have the fabulous Leah Wilson. And over there on violin and rocking those guitar solos, Dave Northumberland. And I'm Madelyn Turner, lyricist and, obviously, vocals." Harry rolls his eyes at me when I glance back at him. Was I too fake for you, your highness? I roll my eyes back.

The crowd claps again.

I say the line I've been waiting for since we came up with our name. "Thank you ladies and gentlemen. We are Empty." But for a change, I don't really feel empty. Tonight I am filled. To the brim. Overflowing.

"And this last song is called Marina Nights." My tv family--all of them, not just the actors--they all gasp and look at each other. Marina Nights is our nickname for the "Turning Pages" sound stage because of the large mural of a marina against a dark sky painted on the outside wall. This song is for them. It is my way of explaining why I have to go. And how much they have meant to me. And how lost I will feel without them.

There was a day a few years back when I felt like I would be swept away in the flood of everything wrong with my life. I couldn't stop crying. And shaking. I was a mess, hiding in my trailer on set. My tv mom came to find me, pulling me down to rest my head on her lap. Jenna stroked my hair softly, and I wanted to cry even harder because she was more of a mother to me than my own. When I told her how I felt like I was drowning under the weight of it all, Jenna said she would be my lifeline and that I could cling to her until the waters receded. "Hold on tight," she said to me, "so you know I'll never leave." It was one of the most important moments in my life, the inspiration for two of the songs tonight.

Marina Nights is another uptempo song, with my bandmates providing backing vocals. My keyboard emits a haunting, ethereal sound. Leah pounds a beat that makes me move my shoulders as I sing, dancing on the little stool. Now Harry is smiling at me, but it is a new smile, one that he tries to hide by pinching his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. He looks as if he, I don't know, respects me? Maybe sees the real me? God, I hope so. I want to scream at him that I am not the girl he sees on tv. That I have never really been that girl. I can't hide behind her anymore. I don't want to anymore.

"The end was foreseen, these Marina Nights blinding me. The flood battered me clean, but left me empty. So much I couldn't say, never said, drowning...sinking...lost, the words fell dead." I almost can't even sing the word. I remember Jenna's strong arms wrapped around me the day I finally went back to work after, a rare not-tv hug. And how I fisted my fingers in her shirt. "And I need you to know as the waters receded, it was you I held onto." I move my eyes around to each of the cast and crew. I am singing at the top of my lungs. I want them to know. I want them to know everything I have always held back.
The music quiets, so it is just me and the keyboard. I sing softly, just above a whisper. "It was you I held onto."

And here it comes, why I can't stay. We had just finished filming season three when he died, when I found him on that fucking tree in my real parents' yard. And everything about the "Turning Pages" set reminds me of that time, of when I lost him. Of my tears and my anger and my unending sadness. I have to move on, just like I had to move out of that house. "Up to my neck, losing my breath," these lines make my voice quiver.

"But it was you I held onto." I haven't put so much power into the song before tonight. It's like seeing them in front of me pushed me further than I knew I could go. God, just like on the show. They always made me better. And just like in my life. They always made me so much fucking better.

I am shaking again as I stand to leave the stage, nearly knocking Brandon's keyboard onto Harry's lap. In the hallway, I lean against a door and put my hands on my knees. Breathing has never been so difficult. Is it this hard for everyone?

"Hey, are we gonna stay and watch the other sets?" Dave asks, his hand resting on my back.

"Yeah," I straighten up. "If that's cool with you guys." We load their stuff into my car and go back into the club.

I head straight for the bar. My mouth is so dry that my tongue is sticking to itself. Man, I would love some vodka. I am eyeing the bottles as the bartender slides over. "I can't serve you, Maddie. You're under age." Is there anyone on this planet who doesn't know every fucking thing about me?

I roll my eyes. "I was going to order a diet coke." I really was. It's been years since I had any alcohol. And I'm only eighteen. My fuckin life. "With a cherry," I add, not intending to be flirtatious.

But he seems to take it as cheeky, and he grins broadly as he pushes a tall glass toward me, his eyes never leaving my chest. "On the house, baby." Gross.

"No, no, I'll pay." I reach into my pocket for a twenty.

"Let me," Harry interrupts, sliding a bill across the bar. I grab his money and shove it back at him.

"I don't want you to buy my drink." I slap the twenty down on the bar and walk away, even though that is way too much for a coke, even in an overpriced club.

Jenna and Sam are waiting for me by the tables. Mom and dad. She wraps her arms around me. A real hug. I want to cry on her shoulder. To let out all of these emotions that have been brought to the surface. But I pull away before the dam bursts.

"Thank you," she whispers. "I'll never leave you, Maddie." God, I love this woman more than anyone on earth. I hug her again. And Sam. And the rest of them, people I have never hugged in my life but who have been there for half of my life.

My whole "Turning Pages" crew leaves, apparently not interested in what any of the other students have to sing about. I sit at a table with the rest of Empty, near Liam, who gushed and blushed when I said hi, and the rest of their band, except Harry. I don't know where he is. Between acts, I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder, the long fingers resting on my exposed collarbone. There is a cross tattoo by the thumb. I look up into Harry's sea green eyes.

"Can I talk to you?"

I mean, I guess. I stand and follow him to the dark, narrow hallway that leads to the back parking lot.

"I'm sorry about what I said." I raise my eyebrows at him. "I know you heard me. Louis told me you started to follow me into the house the other day."

I nod, wanting more.

"I was pissed about other shit in my life, and I... I'm just not very good at dealing with it. I don't think you're fake. Not with me, I mean, with us." He turns away, biting his lower lip. Is he blushing? I want to push his curly hair off his forehead.

"It's okay. I mean, you were right to some extent. My whole life has been fake. I have always pretended to be something I'm not, to be fine when I'm not." He looks back at me in surprise, as if he is shocked that I would admit it. "The hard part," I take a deep breath before continuing, "is figuring out who I really am now that I don't want to pretend anymore."

"Tonight was a good start," he says, moving closer. Harry reaches his tattooed left arm toward me and for a second I wonder if I'm imagining it. But then it curls around the small of my back. He leans his body against me, hips pressed tight to hips. His other hand moves to my cheek, his fingers just grazing my heated skin. He whispers, "Your words took my breath away."

His lips are soft against mine. I open my mouth to breathe and his tongue slides in, moving slowly, just as he speaks slowly. I wrap my arms around his neck and into his hair. A sound comes from low in his throat. This is what real kissing feels like. Not tv kissing. There is no one watching us, telling us what to do next. I don't know what to do next.
He breaks the kiss, and rests his forehead against mine. "You take my breath away."

Same. I pull him closer and kiss him again, moving my tongue into his mouth as he did mine.

When I am almost out of air, I move my mouth to his ear and whisper, "you are my first kiss."

"Bullshit," he says, pulling away with a frown. "I've seen you and that Jonas douche kiss on tv hundreds of times."

I chuckle. "I don't know about hundreds. But I mean," I wrap my arms around his neck to pull him back to me. "The first real kiss. You're the first boy who ever kissed me because he wanted to, not because some script or director told him to."

We kiss again, and I think I have found my new addiction: Harry's lips.

Our moment is interrupted by an awkward cough at the end of the hall. "We're on next," Louis says, his eyebrows raised.

I gaze up at Harry, thinking I must look like a fool, with this goofy grin on my face. "I didn't know you guys were playing tonight?"

"I'm not sure I want to anymore. Your band, you are a tough act to follow."

"Shut up," I push against him lightly, not really wanting him to move.

His green eyes sparkle in the dark. "Make me." I do. Oh, I do.

I have never kissed anyone like this before, our bodies pushing against each other, but our hands pulling. He is pushing his hips into mine, pulling at the back of my shirt. I am pulling the hair at the base of his neck, pushing my chest against his. "Turning Pages" airs at 9, so the hundreds of kisses Jonas Burton and I shared were PG. Probably even G, if I'm honest. My mouth is actually getting sore from making out, and it stings in a very pleasant way when he snags my lower lip between his teeth.

"Paging Harry Styles. Harry Styles to the stage please," Liam' annoyed voice through the sound system interrupts, and we laugh into our kiss.

"Your last name is Styles?"

"Yeah, why?" He looks...uncomfortable.

"Nothing," I chuckle again. I can't remember the last time I laughed so much. "I just didn't know it until now."

"I have to go," he breathes into my mouth, kissing me again.

We finally disentangle ourselves, and as he walks away, he mutters what sounds like, "go on stage with a raging hard-on."

I go out to join the audience and take my seat next to Dave. Harry beams at me from the stage, and I can't help but trail my eyes down his Rolling Stones t-shirt to the bulge in his tight black jeans. I blush and turn away.

"Are you okay?" Dave asks. "Did you get sick in the bathroom?"

"No, why?"

"You're all red and sweaty," he wipes some sweat from my face. The screech of electronic distortion pulls my eyes to the stage, where Harry is glaring at me. "And you were gone a long time."

"I was making out with the bass player," I point at Harry, whose expression softens when Dave moves away from me. I tip my head back and laugh again.

Their music is good. Really good. It reminds me of Coldplay, with a little more edge. And even though Zayn is the lead singer, all of them sing. Harry's voice is scratchy and low. And sexy. I couldn't even begin to tell you what their songs are about because all of my focus and attention is on Harry. I don't take my eyes off him for the rest of their set. I couldn't even if I wanted to. And why on earth would I ever want to?

He joins me immediately when they're done, jumping from the stage to the seating area below. He slides a chair over and sits next to me.

"Harry," he holds his hand across the table to Dave.

"Dave," he shakes hands. "Your set was great, man."

"Thanks," Harry's voice is hoarse. "Yours too. You guys have a good sound." He rests his tattooed hand on my knee. I have this feeling he is marking his turf, but I don't care. That tattooed arm just keeps reaching for me, and I love it. I love the contact. I actually want physical contact.

Harry's bandmates join mine, and the nine of us chat about music and books and movies until the bartender shouts that they're closing. It's not as long as it sounds. Harry's band was the last to perform.

As we reach the parking lot, I hug Liam and Louis and wave to the others, then turn to Harry. Do I get to kiss him whenever I want? I don't know how these things work. "See you soon?" I'm so awkward.

"You're going home with him?" His voice cracks on the last word. He is pointing over my shoulder at Dave, who is getting into my car.

I lean up and brush the sweaty hair from Harry's face, like I wanted to earlier. He turns back to me, and I kiss him softly. "I drove him here."

"Oh." He smiles, a shy, sheepish smile. Like he realizes how stupid it was to get mad or hurt or jealous. And like he likes me. I wrap my arms around his waist and squeeze. He folds his around my back, playing with my long hair. "I have to work tomorrow morning, but can I see you after?"

No. I am too sarcastic for my own good. Thank god I didn't say that out loud. "Of course," I answer, my voice barely audible.

Maddie Styles. Madelyn Styles. Madelyn Elizabeth Styles. My brain is stupid. I tell it to shut up. Shut up. We don't even have each other's phone numbers. But I know where he lives. Stalker-level obsessed. And he knows where I live. I think the corners of my lips will soon stretch and loop behind my ears. I don't remember ever smiling like this. Laughing like this. I am happy. I am so fucking happy for the first time in my life.