Dreaming Of You // Harry Styles

Of course I was in love with Jeanne. I mean, maybe I was obsessing too, but no doubt I was in love with her, and I didn’t really know what I was missing from her the most. For some reason, Liam’s words were exactly what I needed. Since then I got to relax a bit, and I was actually doing better. The idea of my mum and sister arriving to keep me company had a lot to do with it, but mainly it was the fact that he spoke that voice inside of me, the voice I used to hear until it suddenly shut up once I left Paris. She had admitted to have feelings for me, and I was so sure about them. How could she shiver this way between my arms and not be in love with me?

Why did they doubt me then? Did Liam and Jeanne think I am a fool who doesn’t know his own feelings? Yes, they could both be older than me, and pretty earnest, but they shouldn’t doubt me. God, that was so frustrating… I was sort of obsessing, but that longing I was feeling… It was just love. It couldn’t be plain obsession. I was missing her in a way I had never missed anybody before. I missed her delicious body, her warm kisses, the silky feel of her skin, but mostly I was missing her smile and her voice, to watch her sleep, simple things as her breath and touch… God, I didn’t even know if I would see her again… I knew Liam was giving me the benefit of doubt on the matter, but what about Jeanne? We never mentioned the issue again after the Opera.

The same day of her arrival my mum began to round me suspiciously. I hadn’t mentioned Jeanne and I knew she was growing increasingly curious. Should I tell her what was going on? My first impulse once I left Paris was to tell her everything, but then somehow I understood what Liam said to me about mums being pretty heavy. What if my mum would gain a predisposition against Jeanne by our situation? I didn’t want that. In my heart I was hoping things could change between Jeanne and me. Jeanne would come around. I was in love with her, and by Liam’s logic she had to be in love with me too.

In other circumstances I’d tell her everything, but in this case I didn’t really know what to explain. Knowing how persistent my mother can be, it would have been a surprise if she’d given up. Right after the show I heard a knock on the door of my room that took me out from my usual thoughts. We were leaving to Philadelphia the next day in the morning. Philadelphia… My mother’s head appeared after a second. I knew she wasn’t going to drop it so easily.

“Harry, get ready, because you are taking your mum for a drink,” she told me hurriedly, and before I had the chance to react, she turned around and left.

I couldn’t manage to say a word, and not accompanying her would have been ungentlemanly on my part if that was what she wanted. I never had a drink with my mother before and her proposition was somehow tempting, as an adults’ thing. I just needed to be sure to control my booze, in the case I got some as I was still underage in the US. To get drunk in front of my mother would be rather improper and unforgivable. I couldn’t help but wonder how she got Paul’s permission. Well, she was my mother after all.

“What do I serve you?” Asked the waitress.

“A pint of Foster’s for me and if we were in our country–––my mum spoke in her thickest Mancunian accent–––this young man would be having…” She interrupted herself to let me speak.

“A Vodka Martini, but I’d be OK with just cranberries’ juice, thank you,” I told her. The girl suggestively winked an eye at me and I froze. She must have known who I was, but I hate it when people flirt with me while my family is around. I wished it meant she was going to bring me my booze. My mum had opened her eyes in sign of surprise.

“Vodka Martini… My son is becoming a sophisticated man–––she teased me. May I ask you for how long have you been drinking Vodka Martini?” I raised an eyebrow at her question. Since that pub in Paris would be the righteous answer.