Chapter 27

Chapter 27
Harry invites me to dance. But before we get the chance, Mr. Kite approaches with Lizzy.
“May I borrow the lady for a while?” Mr. Kite asks.
“You may.” Harry replies, barely glancing at Lizzy.

“Lizzy, this is Elise.” Mr. Kite says, motioning toward me. “You know Lizzy.”

She greets me with a sweet smile. I wonder—doesn’t it bother her that I’m dating her ex? She hasn’t dated anyone since their breakup.
“She’s going to be your opening act on the next tour.” Mr. Kite says to Lizzy.
“Oh, that would be great!” she beams. “Though the tour isn’t for another five months.”

She’s beautiful. I wonder why they broke up. I guess beauty doesn’t guarantee anything. And now I’ll be touring with her—Harry’s past and my present. Maybe I’m the only one who finds that weird. She seems totally fine about it.

“We’ll release her debut album three months after the EP.” Mr. Kite adds, then excuses himself.

Lizzy steps in closer.
“I heard you’re dating Harry.” she says—not accusing, just confirming.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“For how long?”
“Five months.” I reply, unsure why she wants to know.

I’ve heard Lizzy and Harry were together for six months. No drama surrounded their breakup, no rumors, no mess. Just... silence.

I can’t take the awkwardness anymore. I excuse myself and glance around the room, looking for someone—anyone—to talk to. I spot Harry sitting alone at one of the tables.

“Wanna hijack a car?” he asks as I approach.

From the look in his eyes, he’s clearly drunk. No way I’m letting him drive.
“I’d love to,” I say.
He tries to stand but sways.
“I’ll drive, sweetheart.” I say.
“Could you repeat that?” he asks dramatically.
“I said, I’ll drive.”
He stands, pretending to be offended. “Repeat and continue what you said, human.” he commands, pointing at me.
“I’ll drive,” I repeat, giggling.
“C’mon!” he whines like a kid. He’s so cute like this.
“Sweetheart, you’re acting like a child.” I tease.

He looks at me like I’m a miracle. We head out to the car, and I get behind the wheel, not really knowing where we’re going.

“I love you, Elise.” he says suddenly. Even drunk, his voice is magnetic.
“I love you too, Harry.” I glance at him. “Where are we going?”
“I don’t know.” He closes his eyes. “I love your hair. I love your face. I love your eyes. I love your ears. I love your dandruff. I love your voice. I love your songs. I love your past. I love your present. I love your future. I love you so much, Brit.”

I freeze. Brit. Did I just hear that right?

I glance at him. He’s already asleep. Who’s Brit? Did he mean me? Did he say the wrong name? My hands tighten on the steering wheel, shaking.

I decide to take him home. He needs rest, and I need answers. I park outside his house, help him upstairs, and tuck him in like a child. As he sleeps peacefully, I feel something a pang in my stomach—a need to understand. I walk to his study desk.

A necklace hangs from the mirror—shaped like Cassiopeia. I once gave that same necklace to Britney. My heart starts pounding.

Then I hear it again in my memory—“Brit.”

I open one of his drawers and find a photo turned face-down. It looks like it’s from high school—Harry’s hair is brown and short. Underneath it, a little notebook. I hesitate, but curiosity wins. I find a letter, its handwriting hauntingly familiar.

I know you betrayed me, but thank you, Liam. Maybe I really am sick of living, and you gave me a reason to end it. You were the only friend I had here, but you turned out to be a dick. I want to hate you, but I like you more than a friend. I guess I can’t hate you for what you did. I know you said you love me—I want to believe it, but it doesn’t feel real. You ruined my reputation. You gave me another reason to hate myself.

This is Britney’s handwriting. Wait—why does the sender call him Liam? Maybe this notebook isn’t even meant to be in Harry’s possession. I don’t want him to be the reason Britney took her own life. No. Please, God. I flip through the pages. There’s a photo of them—together—at a party. Maybe this is the party Britney mentioned. She’s wearing a purple skirt and a black cropped muscle tee. Her hair is messy, her lips are painted red, and she’s wearing thick black eyeliner. Britney never wore makeup—but here, she’s fully made up. Harry is standing beside her, smiling. One arm is wrapped around her waist. He’s in brown shorts and a black-and-grey striped shirt. His hair is short and brown—not the usual blonde he has now. He looks younger. Maybe this was taken before he went on the TV show.

Suddenly, everything rushes back. The way he looked at me—those stares. The quiet in his eyes. The way he cried when he talked about his friend. The Cassiopeia necklace. No. This isn’t true. This can’t be real. Please, God—tell me this is a joke.

I’m overwhelmed. I don’t want to think. But I am thinking—about everything. I reach for his phone and use his finger to unlock it. His wallpaper is a photo of us, taken when mom and I first arrived. I open his gallery and start scrolling. There they are. So many pictures—of them. My chest tightens. The weight of it all crushes me. The thought that he might be the reason Britney ended her life wraps around me like a cold, suffocating blanket. Anger rises.

I check the photo dates. Two years ago. That only makes it worse. How could he have known Britney two years ago? When was The Pedal rose to fame? I don’t know.

It’s insane. I just need air. It feels like my lungs are twisting inside my chest. I grab the keys and head outside, leaving Harry asleep inside. I don’t want to talk to him. Not now. Maybe not ever.

I drive back to the party, my mind racing. I find my mom, pull her aside, and whisper that I want to go home. They threw this party for me, but I want to leave early. I can’t take the weight of it—the extravagance, the expectations, the unanswered questions. We say goodbye to a few important people. I know I shouldn’t be driving—I still don’t have a license—but it’s just us, and I pray we won’t get caught.

“Elise, what’s the matter?” Mom asks gently as we reach the parking lot.
“Nothing,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt.

But it’s not nothing.
It’s everything.

“Please,” Mom says, holding my hand.

“When are you going to see the doctor?” I ask—though that’s not really what I mean.

She swallows hard and looks down at her hand.
“I was planning to tell you… but I thought you were too busy. I figured maybe I should just go alone.”

“So, you’re really planning to go?”
My eyes light up, and a small smile tugs at my lips.