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Authors: Aven Ellis
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here, as I know we’re destined to be friends, but why do I feel like that sentence alludes to something deeper than that?
Harrison clears his throat, and I realize the moment is over.
“Let’s go see the house.”
“I can’t wait,” I say, climbing up into his car.
Harrison shuts the door after me and walks around to the driver’s side, slipping behind the wheel.
“I think you’ll love it,” Harrison says, turning the key in the ignition. As soon as the engine starts, music comes blaring through the car. “Shit, sorry,” Harrison says, instantly turning it down.
I smile at him. “It’s okay, I like Muse.”
He turns to face me as the song “Madness” fills the air.
“ You do? ”
I can’t help but laugh at the shocked look on his face. “Yeah, I do. This is my favorite Muse song, actually.”
“Wow, mine too,” Harrison says as he eases into the street. “With ‘Hysteria’ a close second.”
We begin talking about our favorite Muse songs, compiling our top ten lists, and playfully arguing when we don’t agree.
And before I know it, Harrison is pulling up into a driveway of an elegant old home in Highland Park.
“Oh wow,” I gasp, staring at the two-story home. “Harrison, it’s gorgeous.”
I stare at the beautiful home, with its gray brick and black shutters and black roof. It exudes the charm from a period long ago, and I’m immediately drawn to it.
We get out of the car, and Harrison strolls with me up the long sidewalk, past a lush, manicured green lawn.
“Like I said earlier, it was built in 1937,” Harrison says as we walk. “It has been passed down within the same family for generations, until this last couple decided they wanted to move to something smaller and more manageable.”
“1937,” I repeat, gazing at the old home in front of us. “Can you imagine the stories this home could tell? The history it has seen?” I stop for a second, visualizing it from the sidewalk. “Just think of it. This home was built during the Depression. This family lived through World War II in this house. I can just see the women in their dresses, the hair rolled back, the red lipstick, listening to the war updates around the radio . . . then the 50’s when the economy was rebuilding . . . and the 60’s, with culture clashes and outfits like they wear on Mad Men . . . I really wish these walls could talk.”
I stop for a moment and realize I’ve been rambling like a crazy person. I feel embarrassment sweep through me as I notice a quizzical expression etched on his gorgeous face.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “I . . . I get carried away sometimes.”
“You see things in a way most people don’t,” Harrison says. “Don’t ever apologize for that, Kylie. That’s what makes you different. Different in a good way.”
“You’re kind to say that,” I say quietly as we go up toward the front door, past mounds of colorful impatiens planted in huge flowerbeds on each side of the sidewalk.
“I mean it,” Harrison says, stopping me by putting his hand on my arm. The second he touches me, the second I feel his warm skin against mine, electricity ricochets through me with a force I’ve never known before.
“When you say something,” Harrison continues, his fingertips still on my arm, “I want to hear it. You have intelligent thoughts and unique interests and I’m never bored talking to you. You’re interesting , Kylie. One of the most interesting people I’ve ever met.”
I stare back into his eyes. My heart stops as I see nothing but sincerity shining in them.
“You’re being completely honest with me, aren’t you?” I say aloud, amazed that this man—this famous, intelligent, gorgeous man—finds me interesting.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Harrison asks, a confused expression filtering across his face.
And even though I know I shouldn’t do this—every quiz on relationships I have ever taken advises I shouldn’t —I’m going to say something that doesn’t
Harrison clears his throat, and I realize the moment is over.
“Let’s go see the house.”
“I can’t wait,” I say, climbing up into his car.
Harrison shuts the door after me and walks around to the driver’s side, slipping behind the wheel.
“I think you’ll love it,” Harrison says, turning the key in the ignition. As soon as the engine starts, music comes blaring through the car. “Shit, sorry,” Harrison says, instantly turning it down.
I smile at him. “It’s okay, I like Muse.”
He turns to face me as the song “Madness” fills the air.
“ You do? ”
I can’t help but laugh at the shocked look on his face. “Yeah, I do. This is my favorite Muse song, actually.”
“Wow, mine too,” Harrison says as he eases into the street. “With ‘Hysteria’ a close second.”
We begin talking about our favorite Muse songs, compiling our top ten lists, and playfully arguing when we don’t agree.
And before I know it, Harrison is pulling up into a driveway of an elegant old home in Highland Park.
“Oh wow,” I gasp, staring at the two-story home. “Harrison, it’s gorgeous.”
I stare at the beautiful home, with its gray brick and black shutters and black roof. It exudes the charm from a period long ago, and I’m immediately drawn to it.
We get out of the car, and Harrison strolls with me up the long sidewalk, past a lush, manicured green lawn.
“Like I said earlier, it was built in 1937,” Harrison says as we walk. “It has been passed down within the same family for generations, until this last couple decided they wanted to move to something smaller and more manageable.”
“1937,” I repeat, gazing at the old home in front of us. “Can you imagine the stories this home could tell? The history it has seen?” I stop for a second, visualizing it from the sidewalk. “Just think of it. This home was built during the Depression. This family lived through World War II in this house. I can just see the women in their dresses, the hair rolled back, the red lipstick, listening to the war updates around the radio . . . then the 50’s when the economy was rebuilding . . . and the 60’s, with culture clashes and outfits like they wear on Mad Men . . . I really wish these walls could talk.”
I stop for a moment and realize I’ve been rambling like a crazy person. I feel embarrassment sweep through me as I notice a quizzical expression etched on his gorgeous face.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “I . . . I get carried away sometimes.”
“You see things in a way most people don’t,” Harrison says. “Don’t ever apologize for that, Kylie. That’s what makes you different. Different in a good way.”
“You’re kind to say that,” I say quietly as we go up toward the front door, past mounds of colorful impatiens planted in huge flowerbeds on each side of the sidewalk.
“I mean it,” Harrison says, stopping me by putting his hand on my arm. The second he touches me, the second I feel his warm skin against mine, electricity ricochets through me with a force I’ve never known before.
“When you say something,” Harrison continues, his fingertips still on my arm, “I want to hear it. You have intelligent thoughts and unique interests and I’m never bored talking to you. You’re interesting , Kylie. One of the most interesting people I’ve ever met.”
I stare back into his eyes. My heart stops as I see nothing but sincerity shining in them.
“You’re being completely honest with me, aren’t you?” I say aloud, amazed that this man—this famous, intelligent, gorgeous man—finds me interesting.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Harrison asks, a confused expression filtering across his face.
And even though I know I shouldn’t do this—every quiz on relationships I have ever taken advises I shouldn’t —I’m going to say something that doesn’t
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