Complicated

by Ashley Love

  No.

  No. He can't. He can't love me. He's too young. He doesn't know what love is. How can he possibly love me? And besides, this is not about love. This has never been about love. It's been about sex. It is purely physical what is going on between he and I. My brain screams this over and over and over but something inside me quietly contests. I push that voice down. I beat it and maim it until I only hear its echo...but still its there.

  It's the only way I can justify it, as screwed up as that sounds. It's the only way I have been able to justify it to myself, telling myself that this is just a fling. That there is never any prospect of a relationship for us because he is so off limits. It's just good sex. That's all. There was never to be any emotion involved. There is no emotion involved...at least not from me...but something inside me quietly...

  "Scarlett," he says, his voice soft as he pulls back from me, rising on his elbows to look down into my face. "Did you hear me? I said—"

  "Yes, I heard you," I say quickly, my stomach clenching at the thought of him saying it again. He can't say it again.

  His face shows uncertainty and he shifts as he blinks down at me. "So..."

  I don't respond. I look away. This is not about love. This is not about love. This is purely physical. It is not about love. I do not love him. I cannot love him. I don't. I don't.

  "Scarlett, I said I lo—"

  "And I said I heard you," I spit, panic spreading through me, and he looks down at me confused and slightly hurt and I feel a suffocating tightness in my chest as I look away from him.

  "I love you, Scar," he whispers and I close my eyes, shaking my head at him.

  "Don't... don't say that to me, Harry," I say as softly and as gently as possible, hating myself, hating the fact that I let it get this far.

  "But I—"

  "No, Harry," I say again, my hand smoothing against his back and I feel him sigh, his forehead falling against my collarbone.

  "Okay," he says softly, his concession quiet and broken in the silence of the room.

  And I wonder how long this can go on. How much longer can I do this to him? How much longer can I hurt him? How much more can I hate myself? Because at this moment I don't think it can get much worse.

  23

  "The San Vitale church in Ravenna, Italy is one of the most important examples of Byzantine art in Western Europe," I say, tapping my pen against the notebook in my lap. "What kind of church was it?"

  I glance up and find Harry staring at me glassily, his cheek resting on his hand, his mouth hanging open slightly. He snaps out of it when I look at him, licking his lips as he peers back down at his book. I shift in my seat. This is awkward.

  It's been a week since he told me... since he said...that. We haven't seen much of each other, mostly because I've been avoiding him. I know, I know, very mature of me but what am I supposed to do?

  You're supposed to end it. You're supposed to let him go.

  I silently tell my conscience to fuck off. Seriously, I don't need this right now.

  "Umm..." He pauses, scanning the page for information.

  "Did you do the reading?" I sigh, rubbing my temples and he shifts in his chair.

  "We've been really busy—"

  "Harry!" I exclaim, annoyed, tossing my pen on the vanity.

  "I'm sorry!" he responds, sighing. He looks at me somewhat longingly as he continues, "It's hard to concentrate. We haven't studied together in awhile."

  I eye him for a moment, struggling to read through the undertones. Does he mean we haven't studied for awhile so he's unfamiliar with the material? Or we haven't studied in a while as in he hasn't bent me in half recently? I shake my head forcing the thought from my mind, a flash of heat traveling through my body and settling in my belly. His hand reaches across the table to touch mine but I pull back, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear nervously.

  I've let this get too far. It was never supposed to happen like this. He was never supposed to...

  "I've missed you, Scarlett," he says softly and his hand reaches out to brush his fingers against my cheek. My eyes close and I can't stop myself from pressing against his hand.

  If I dug deep down and was honest with myself, I would admit that I've missed him. That I've lain awake at night and thought about him, laying in his bed down the hall, maybe thinking of me, too. But I'm not honest with myself, so I cover that up with thoughts of his body and his hands and his lips. I cheapen it and make it dirty. I think of him on top of me and inside me and I don't think of how it makes me feel whole and complete, but about the mind numbing bone crushing pleasure he gives me.

  "Harry, stop," I say suddenly, scooting my chair further away from him. "Stop."

  He sighs, leaning back in his chair. "I love you, Scarlett."

  "The most substantial part of San Vitale is its mosaics, which are typical of this art period," I say quickly, rolling over his words and rolling over his emotions.

  He sighs, looking back down at his books dutifully, following along. It's not his fault, but I'm taking it out on him...like I always do. I've taken the past week to really reevaluate my life, try and figure out where I went wrong. Maybe it was when I took that sophomore to the prom my senior year of high school. Maybe it was that undergrad I went out on a date with last quarter.

  Maybe you didn't go wrong. Maybe you're scared that you love him, too.

  I shake my head hard, pressing the heel of my hand into my forehead. This is ridiculous. I can't even teach a simple lesson anymore. My thesis is in shambles. My fucking life is in shambles. I can't do this. I can't.

  "Are you okay?" His voice is concerned, his hands coming to wrap around my wrists, pulling my hands away from my face but I don't let him because I can feel it coming.

  Tears hot and unrelenting prick my eyes and I do my best to force it back, pulling my legs to my chest. Wasn't this how it all started? Crying in the library over my dickhead professor, and, Harry, he...

  He's pulling my hands away from my face, despite my best efforts against it and I can feel the wetness begin to course its way down my face. He's on his knees in front of my chair in an instant, pulling my legs down and then off the chair. My body falls into his lap and he's holding me against his chest as I straddle his thighs. I press my cheek against his shoulder, my arms circling him under his arms. My hands smooth up, clutching the fabric of his t-shirt at his shoulder blades and I let him rock me and shush me and tell me that it will be okay. I listen to him tell me he loves me. I cringe with each utterance, holding him close, willing him to shut up and never stop talking all at the same time.

  "Scarlett..." he whispers, fingers combing through my hair and I just want to bury my face in his neck and forget.

  I want to forget that he's seventeen years old. I want to forget that I'm his teacher. I want to love him. I want to love him. This realization causes such horror in me that I stop crying instantly. I pull back to look him in the face and his eyes show worry but he smiles at me. He smiles because he knows that it makes me smile. I sniff, the corners of my mouth turning up despite the war of emotions roaring in my head and he wipes my face.

  "How 'bout them mosaics?" he asks, and he's pushing it away. He's giving me what I need before I even register that I need it. He's pulling us into neutral territory.

  I take a deep breath, pulling myself from his lap and sitting back in my chair. He clamors up into his own seat and waits for me to speak, the vision of an apt pupil. It's as if none of this has ever happened. It's like he and I don't exist together. This causes my chest to tighten until I fear I'll suffocate, but I look down at my notes and try to press on. We have to keep moving. I take a deep breath.

  "The curve of the great triumphal arch is decorated with fifteen mosaic medallions, depicting Jesus Christ, the twelve Apostles and Saint Gervasius and Saint Protasius, the sons of Saint Vitale." I pause looking up at him, and he nods, encouraging me to continue as if enraptured, glancing down at his book to follow along.

  I smile sl
ightly, just like old times. The art takes me over and I'm warm and filled and it doesn't matter anymore. This is what art does to me. It makes every problem I have fall away. I let the beauty and the culture take me over and nothing else matters. Not me, not Harry, not our entire fucked up existence. Just the art.

  "At the foot of the apse side walls are two famous mosaic panels, executed in 548, depicting the Emperor Harry, clad in purple with—"

  "Wait...what?" he asks, his head snapping up and looking at me slightly astonished, a slow grin creeping up his face. Here we go. I should have known he would jump all over this.

  I continue on, suppressing a grin, "The Emperor Harry, clad in purple with a golden halo, standing next to—"

  "Wait, I was an emperor!" he exclaims, bouncing giddily in his chair and I bite my lip to hold back my giddy smile at his enthusiasm.

  "No," I say, trying to mask my amusement. "There was an Emperor of the Roman empire named Harry who was—"

  "I was powerful," he says, reading along in his book, his eyes scanning rapidly across the page. "Fuck, I was awesome!" he exclaims, bouncing in his seat.

  "You were illiterate, too," I add, just to jab him a little and he looks up at me, frowning. I smile cheekily as I add, "Good to know that even morons can grow to greatness. Gives you some hope, doesn't it?"

  He narrows his eyes at me before breaking into a smile that steals my breath. "Fuck that!" he exclaims and then grins at me charmingly. "Who's your emperor?" And with that he reaches out and wiggles his fingers against my ribs. I burst into giggles writhing and gasping, trying to pull away. It's like nothing ever happened. It's just he and I...carefree and in—

  I crush the thought before it fully forms. Not now. Part of me screams not ever. I silently beg both of them to be quiet and just let me enjoy this carefree moment.

  He's laughing too as he stands from his chair leaning over me and tickling me, not letting up and I can't breathe I'm laughing so hard. I'm squirming and wiggling, turned almost completely around in my chair, trying to get away from him but he's surrounding me, his arms circling my body, his chest pressed against my back.

  I gasp. He's too close. I can't take this convexity of emotions! It's ripping me apart inside, tearing me to shreds. An overwhelming need to pull away engulfs me and I curl tighter into myself. But more overwhelming is the part of me that wants his arms to wrap around me to hold me, not to tickle me. Part of me wants to thread my fingers through his and let him kiss my neck and sway me to the music that is constantly playing in his head. What the hell am I saying?

  "Harry, stop," I say forcefully enough for him to stop laughing abruptly and slightly pull back.

  My chest is heaving as I uncurl myself from my chair. His hands are still resting on my ribs lightly, holding me, asking silently if I'm okay. He thinks he's hurt me. In some ways he has. I shove it down, just like I shove his hands away and pat my clothing, trying to wipe away his touch but that never really goes away.

  "I'm sorry," he says softly, his hand heavy on my shoulder, and he's trying to turn me to face him but I refuse to do so. "Scarlett..."

  I curl into myself again, reaching down to grab my notes that I've dropped on the floor. I tuck my hair behind my ear nervously, refusing to meet his gaze. He reaches for me, his hands covering mine as they clutch my notes. All I can see right now is the papers in my grasp, information that I know, that I've known for as long as I can remember. And my hands gripping it, holding on to this little piece of knowledge that I am confident in, feeling comfort in holding it in my hands and in my head. And his hands are over mine, steadying me, keeping me from shaking myself apart.

  "I don't understand," he says weakly and I close my eyes because he's confused. Fuck, I'm confused. "I don't understand why you won't just—"

  There's a sudden knock at the door and Harry is back in his seat in an instant, hollering a distracted "Yeah?" I turn to face the door as it opens and it's Joe, his face weary as he hold—my eyes widen—the biggest bouquet of flowers I have ever seen.

  "Flowers," he grumbles gruffly, glaring past me at Harry. "For Scarlett."

  My mouth falls open as he shoves the vase into my hands and glares past me again before walking out, shutting the door behind him. I just sit there, dumbly staring down at the beautiful arrangement in my hands. French tulips stand out among pink oriental lilies that almost overpower me with their heady scent. Star of Bethlehem and Bells of Ireland dot the arrangement and Eucalyptus leaves hang low among the overflowing flora.

  I turn to look at Harry who is grinning like a fool, but he immediately bites his lip to suppress it. He does a poor job. I don't know what to say. No one has ever bought me flowers before. Wait... I've had this conversation. Recently too, with Megan as she was doing Zayn's hair. My eyes narrow at him and he gives me a sheepish smile.

  "Harry," I sigh, fully prepared to give him the lecture on how he cannot, under any circumstances, do this but he cuts me off.

  "Read the card," he says, bouncing slightly.

  I cut my eyes at him, setting the vase on the vanity and searching for the card among the blooms. After a few moments of searching I finally pluck the small white envelope from amidst the fragrant flowers. My fingers tremble as I open it and pull out the tiny card with only one line written on it in his untidy scrawl.

  I know I'm not supposed to...but I do anyway. Love, Harry

  My heart drops to my toes and I look up at him. He's smiling shyly, looking from me to his hands and I'm at a loss for words. The ease with which he's giving himself to me, after all I have done to him and said to him and the way that I've treated him. I'm a terrible person and I hate myself. Then again, what else is new?

  But one of us has to be the adult in this, and because he can't or won't, it's going to have to be me. So I'll do what I always do. I'll break his heart.

  "Harry," I say softly, sitting in my chair across from him. I scoot closer to take his hands and he beams at me, ready to be praised for a job well done. I swallow hard. "They're beautiful...really—"

  "I knew you liked lilies because of those flowers that Megan's boyfriend sent. And I knew you liked the tulips because I heard you telling Zayn about your mom growing them in your garden when you were little," he rattles off, grinning, and it hurts to see him this happy over something he did for me.

  "Yes, Harry, they're..." I pause, looking over at them, and I'm overwhelmed once again. "They're beautiful."

  "I wanted to be the first to send you flowers," he grins bashfully and I tear my gaze away to watch him bite his lip and chuckle slightly. "I wanted to be your first."

  I shake my head. He can't charm me. He can't. I have to do the right thing. Even if it hurts him. Even if it kills me I have to tell him the truth. I have to be the responsible one because he won't be.

  "Harry, sweetheart—"

  "I know what you're going to say," he cuts me off, his face falling finally as he gives in. "We can't be together," he sighs. "I can't love you."

  I nod, taking his hands in mine and he rubs his thumbs in slow circles over the backs of my hands. He watches his thumbs stroke my skin and I watch his face, watching his mask crack and then eventually break.

  "Why?" he asks suddenly, green eyes crashing into mine, and I gasp at the intensity of his gaze. "Why can't I love you? I do love you!"

  "Harry," I say gently, hoping the softness of my voice will get him to lower his. "You don't mean that—"

  "I do mean that!" he whispers heatedly. "I love you, Scarlett. God, from the top of my head to the bottom of my fucking feet and everywhere in between, I love you!" He exclaims with such force and sincerity that it steals my breath and every thought except... "And I know you love me, too," he says eagerly. I shake my head at him but he nods his at me. "Yes you do. You love me, Scarlett. You can say you don't all you want but I see it in your eyes." He pauses, bringing a hand up to brush his thumb over the delicate skin beneath my eye. "And I can feel it when you touch me."

  "Harry, I can't," I pl
ead, my stomach twisting itself in knots, and he shakes his head at me.

  "Yes, you can," he says softly and surely and he's never been more of a man than he is at this moment. Then he sighs, his hand falling from my face. "You just won't."

  The sadness in his eyes when he says it is enough to make me choke on my breath. I hate myself. IhatemyselfIhatemyselfIhatemyself. Then he does something that astounds me. He leans back and plasters a huge grin on his face.

  "But that's fine," he continues, his smile sure and true. "You don't have to say it. I'll say it enough for the both of us."

  "Harry—" I warn, but he shakes his head, silencing me.

  "I'm not going to stop saying it," he says, his voice soft but stern. "You don't have to respond but I'm not going to stop. You love me, Scarlett. And one of these days you're going to admit it."

  He looks back down at his book, a pleasant expression on his face as he reads to himself and I can do nothing but regard him with awe and adoration. He's so resilient and trusting. The way he can look at me so hurt and defeated one moment and the next he can be bright eyed and hopeful. That he can just believe in me.

  I watch him for several moments more before picking up my notebook and resuming the lesson.

  24

  "Harry!" I exclaim with a giggle as he drags me onto the elevator. I look around cautiously but the only thing I see is Joe's disapproving gaze before he turns and makes his way back into the kitchens.

  Harry is on me the second the doors close, his mouth devouring mine and I'm dazed instantly, my arms wrapping around his shoulders as he presses me into the wall of the elevator. He chuckles as he kisses me, his lipsinR sliding wetly over mine, his hands everywhere. He's excited. He has another surprise for me and I can't help but feel excited right along with him.

  After his strong declaration during our study session several weeks ago I can't help but see him differently. The way he stands tall to the guys' criticism now. The way he conducts himself in interviews. Even in the simple way he grabs me and kisses the shit out of me. So undeterred and unafraid. He loves me. He trusts that I love him. Even though I refuse to admit it.