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“This one, right?”
Harry nods at the Lyft driver, forcing a smile before he gets out of the car. He can tell by the way Louis’ lips are pressed in a thin line that he’s just as pissed as Harry is. He can be such a dick.
“You can be such a dick,” Louis says. He shakes a cigarette out of a crushed carton from the back pocket of his jeans. “You know that, right?”
Harry’s tempted to ignore him as he stalks up the path to their rental. But he had one too many tequilas tonight for the silent treatment.
“All I did,” Harry starts, frowning at the lock as he tries to jab his key in, “was have a polite conversation with one of your coworkers. Fuck!” Harry whirls around, leaving the key dangling. “You fucking do it, you’re the one who wanted to rent this stupid fucking house with its stupid fucking lock.”
Louis takes a drag of his cigarette, making Harry wait until he exhales.
“Polite conversation?” He arches one brow.
Harry crosses his arms. It really isn’t fair that Louis looks hot when he’s mad.
“You were fucking flirting,” Louis says, pointing the lit cigarette at him before stepping up to the door. “‘Oh, me? I’m a real estate estate agent. I describe small houses as romantic and they sell, just like that.’ Aren’t real estate agents supposed to be able to get into any kind of house? But you can’t even manage our front door.”
“It sticks!” Harry waves his hand toward the lock that Louis is currently jiggling the key into. “It always fucking sticks, you know that. I hate this fucking house.”
Louis finally gets the lock to click and he stubs out the half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray on the windowsill before walking inside. He doesn’t bother to hold the door open for Harry.
“Well?” Harry demands, after slamming the door shut behind him. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
“What do you want me to say?” Louis throws his hands up. “We’ve had this exact fight, oh, I don’t know, about a thousand times already. The lock sticks, okay? I’m fucking sorry.”
“If you would have just looked at the MLS with me–”
“We’re not ready to buy!” Louis shouts. “I’ve told you that–”
“You don’t know that,” Harry protests, shaking his head. “You won’t even go to the bank with me–”
“To hear them say in person we’re not ready to buy? No, I won’t, it’s embarrassing. Fuck’s sake, Harry.”
“I’ve been in real estate for ten years and I’m still renting. My own fucking boyfriend won’t listen to me when I–”
“But Steve was sure listening to you tonight, wasn’t he?”
Harry wants to scream. He wants to scream and yell and throw things. He can’t deal with Louis when he’s like this.
“You’re such an asshole,” he says, tugging at his hair so he won’t pick up a vase and smash it. “I went to the bar to spend time with you. I never get to see you any more, you’re always working. And what did you do as soon as we got there?”
“I had a drink,” Louis says, shrugging off his jacket. He tosses it onto the couch and crosses his arms.
“With your boss!” Harry yells, his heart pounding when Louis doesn’t even react. “With your fucking boss, Louis. You ignored me the whole night, so yes, I told one of your coworkers what I do for a living and he actually listened to me when I gave him advice about the market–”
“Oh, is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
“You know what,” Harry says, taking a step back. “Fuck you. Fuck you. I’m leaving.”
He takes the stairs two at a time. When he reaches the primary bedroom, he starts throwing clothes into his duffel bag. If he expected to hear Louis climbing the stairs after him, he’d have been disappointed. Harry shakes his head. Fine. He grabs his dopp kit and fills it with the essentials from the bathroom before stuffing it in the bag on top of a cardigan. He remembers his phone charger just as he gets to the doorway and doubles back for it. As he walks back downstairs, he texts their friend Niall.
He thinks about saying something to Louis before he leaves, but he’s too mad. He just has to get out of here. He slams the door again on his way out, cursing the stupid lock and their landlord who refuses to replace it and Louis for acting like it’s not a big deal when it is–
A huge crack of lightning flashes across the sky. Harry could swear it splits the night open.
Ugh. He hopes it doesn’t start to rain before he gets to Niall’s place.
*
Louis is trying to write an email to a potential guest for the podcast he produces, but Harry keeps texting him about some bill that should have arrived at the house by now. Every time Louis’ phone dings, it breaks his concentration. He has a whole list of things he wanted to be done with by the time Niall gets to the office, and now he’ll be lucky if he manages to hit send on this by then. It’s like Harry’s trying to ruin his day.
He shoves his phone into a desk drawer and walks over to the mini fridge for a Red Bull. What Harry doesn’t understand is that the market for true crime podcasts is oversaturated. Even if you already have a good hook (which they do, if he does say so himself), you have to put in the work to stand out on a continual basis. You need the right cases, the right guests. You need to track relevant updates.
It never ends. That’s why he works so hard. It’s not just his ass on the line, it’s everyone’s. Niall, the host; Steve, the sound engineer; the girls in ad sales. Hell, even their social media intern needs the pittance they pay her to help make rent.
Well, Steve can fuck off actually, after that night at the bar a couple of weeks ago. But still.
Louis sinks into his chair, just about to take the first sip of his sweet, overly caffeinated beverage, when he hears the muffled sound of his ringtone. Great, now Harry’s calling him. He’s debating whether to answer or just throw his phone into the river when Niall walks in.
“Hey, Lou,” he says, eyes on the phone in his hand. “Harry’s been texting me about his mail.”
“I have it right here,” Louis replies, rolling his eyes before he grabs the stack of envelopes from his backpack. “Tell him to leave me alone, I already told him I’d pass everything along to you.”
Niall takes the mail and plops down on the sofa opposite Louis’ desk.
“So,” Louis says, stretching his arms over his head and trying to put Harry out of his mind. “How was the meeting?”
“Fine,” Niall says, distracted as he types on his phone. “The bigwigs liked the deck we put together about next quarter. But the weirdest thing happened on the train.”
Louis laughs. “It wouldn’t be a trip to New York if something weird didn’t happen.”
“No, seriously,” Niall says. He swipes on his phone and then holds it up to show Louis a photo. “Look, it was like the train was going faster on the right side or something? See, look at the windows.”
“Nah, that’s not real,” Louis replies, waving his hand. “It’s an optical illusion, Neil. Don’t–”
Louis' ringtone goes off again.
“Ugh,” Louis groans, throwing his head back. “Can you believe this asshole? Who still gets their bills in the mail? He’s such a boomer.”
*
Harry hates being late. There’s nothing worse than arriving somewhere flustered and slightly sweaty. It’s even worse when it’s all Louis’ fault.
He pushes open the door to LaColombe in Fishtown, scanning the sea of tables.
“H! Harry, over here!”
Harry follows the sound of Niall’s voice and finally sees him and Zayn at a table over on the side of the large first floor space. He weaves his way through the crowd, only bumping a couple of elbows on his way.
“Hey,” he says when he reaches the table. His eyes land on a tall plastic cup in front of an empty chair. “Oh my God, did you get my coffee?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Niall says, pushing the cup toward him. “Sit down. My treat today.”
“Thank fuck,” Zayn mumbles, his eyes only half open. His hands are wrapped around a mug.
“Don’t mind him,” Niall laughs, clapping Zayn on the shoulder. “He was up all night, doing rocket science.”
“Thanks, Ni. You’re a lifesaver.” Harry leans over and presses a fleeting kiss to Niall’s shoulder. None of them really understand Zayn’s work at NASA when he tries to explain it, so he doesn’t give him the chance to correct Niall, telling them, “I would’ve been here earlier, but I stopped at the house. I was going to pick up some clothes, but I couldn’t get in.”
“The lock?” Niall lifts his eyebrows, frowning when Harry nods. “Yeah, Lou was complaining about it the other day.”
Harry freezes in the middle of taking off his jacket.
“What did you just say?”
“Uh…” Niall looks at Zayn, who merely shrugs. “Well, Louis was just talking about that? How the landlord won’t fix it?”
“Are you kidding me,” Harry says, not realizing that he’d raised his voice until the women at the next table turn to look at him. He tries to smile at them, but he’s sure it came out more like a grimace. He sits down and repeats, in a calm voice, “Are you kidding me?”
“No…” Niall lifts his hands, palms up, in a silent question. “I mean, yes? I mean… What?”
“He’s been acting like I’m crazy or some kind of asshole for being pissed about the lock never working. And I tried texting and calling when I couldn’t get in this morning, but I couldn’t get a hold of him. That fucker.”
Harry takes a sip of cold brew, and his eyelids flutter shut for a moment in relief. Zayn nods at him, an understanding gleam in his dark brown eyes as he sips his own coffee.
“He’s working,” Niall says, tearing open a packet of sugar and shaking it into his mug. “Last minute audio for this episode we’re recording Monday. It’s pretty cool, actually, the husband–”
“He’s always working,” Harry says, pulling out his phone to text Louis again. As he types a furious message about needing to set a time to get inside the house, he continues, “He has no boundaries. Working weekends, always checking his phone at midnight. No work/life balance. It’s ridiculous.”
When he sets his phone down on the table with a satisfying thud, he looks up to see his friends staring at him.
“What? It’s true.”
“Kinda harsh,” Zayn says, shrugging.
“Niall?” Harry looks to his left.
“I don’t want to get in the middle of it,” Niall says, ignoring his phone as the screen lights up with texts from Louis. “Well, any more in the middle than I already am. Hey, did you guys hear about that bridge accident? In Jersey?”
“No, haven’t heard,” Zayn mutters. He drains his coffee cup and reaches for Niall’s.
“It sounded really bad,” Niall says, keeping his grasp on his mug tight as Zayn tries to pluck his fingers off one by one. “The bridge bent or something, lotta cars went into the water.”
As Harry cranes his neck, trying to read the flurry of texts coming through on Niall’s phone, he thinks about how bridges don’t bend, they collapse. But Niall hates it when he acts like a know-it-all, so he doesn’t say anything.
“I was scrolling through the hashtag before you guys got here,” Niall continues, picking up his phone with his free hand. “Some gnarly pics.”
“Wait,” Zayn says, looking marginally more alert. “Did you say it bent?”
Harry ignores them and checks his calendar on his phone. He can get by doing laundry at Niall’s for three days, maybe four. But he really needs his asshole ex-boyfriend to help him out.
*
Louis is already awake when his alarm clock goes off. He stares at the ceiling, resolutely ignoring the empty half of the bed next to him as the soothing voice of a reporter for the local NPR affiliate fills the room. Harry used to laugh at him, how he needs to ease out of bed in stages instead of jumping out, all chipper to start his day like Harry does. Or did, at least, while they were together. Maybe Louis is better off. He doesn’t know what he was thinking, dating a morning person.
The reporter shifts topics, beginning a story about an emerging pattern of domestic flights arriving at their destinations early. Must be a slow news day. Louis rolls his eyes and heaves himself out of bed as an interview with some government official starts playing. He wishes his biggest problem was a plane landing early. People will find anything to complain about.
After he turns the shower on, he stands at the sink and brushes his teeth, giving the water some time to heat up. Unlike his ex, who’d recently taken up cold plunges – even paying some spa on Broad Street for the privilege – Louis prefers his showers as hot as he can stand them. There’s nothing worse than the shock of being woken up by cold water. When he’s done brushing his teeth, he strips and gets into the shower without bothering to check the temperature. It’s been long enough.
“Fuck,” he yells, jumping back as the cold spray hits him. He almost falls, but manages to grab the towel bar just in time. “What the fuck?”
The water isn’t just cool, on the way to warming up. It’s ice cold. Louis’ eyes narrow at the flamingo-patterned shower curtain that Harry had picked out.
He knows exactly what happened.
The story about planes is still playing in the bedroom, and he slams his hand onto the button of his clock radio, silencing it. Then he picks up his cell phone, tugging the charging cord out of it, and pulls up his contacts. The phone rings twice before Harry answers it.
“Did you, by any chance,” Louis says, trying to keep his tone measured, “forget to pay the gas bill?”
“I didn’t forget,” Harry replies, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “I just didn’t pay it.”
“Why the fuck not?” Louis explodes, fully awake and alert at this point. “You always pay the gas bill, why would you–”
“Because I’m not living there right now.”
Louis can just picture the smug look on his face.
“And if you’re not even going to give me the bill for–”
“It didn’t come,” Louis snaps. There’s not enough caffeine in the world to deal with Harry this early in the morning. “It didn’t fucking get here yet, okay? I will give it to Niall when it gets here. But until then, you’re not going to–”
There’s a click, and Louis checks his phone screen. Yup. Harry just hung up on him.
What a fantastic start to his fucking day.
*
Harry trudges up the walk to the house he shared with Louis. He complained a lot when he lived there, but he had to admit it’s a cute house. The rooms are large, it has enough backyard space for grilling with friends, and they even fit a couple of small chairs on the front porch. The location isn’t bad either. It’s not that Harry was unhappy here; he’s just done renting. He’s lost count of the people that he’s helped find a home. It was supposed to be their turn. Well, it’s his turn now.
When he reaches the front door, he tries to turn the door knob but it won’t budge. He frowns. It shouldn’t be locked. He knows Louis is home; his car is parked in front of the next house. And they’d set a time to start dividing up their things, so why–
Harry’s shoulders sag. Louis locked the door on purpose. He’s probably sitting in the living room, laughing at Harry while he waits for him to knock. Well, he can go fuck himself. Harry had to squeeze this in between showings, trying to accommodate Louis’ schedule. Fuck this. Maybe he’ll just leave.
He turns around and his mouth falls open when he sees Louis jogging up the walk.
“Hey, H,” Louis says, holding up a half-gallon of milk. “Just ran out for this, wanted some tea.”
“Oh,” Harry says. He feels dumb. He feels so dumb. Here he was, thinking Louis was just being petty and getting madder and madder, and he’d just ran to the corner store for milk.
Louis scoots past him and unlocks the door, only having to jiggle the key a couple of times. Harry follows him inside, wondering if he should apologize.
“There’s your mail,” Louis says, tossing his keys onto the front table, next to a messy pile of envelopes. “Don’t want you to think I was withholding it on purpose like you did with the gas bill. Thanks for that, by the way.”
Harry picks up the envelopes without bothering to go through them and stuffs them into his laptop bag.
Nope. No apology necessary.
“I started on the books,” Louis calls out from the kitchen, where he’s filling the teapot with water.
Harry sets his bag on the couch and walks over to the bookshelves. There are a couple of empty cardboard boxes on the floor, and it looks like Louis has pulled out a few of Harry’s books and stacked them. Harry snorts. Some start. He looks at the top shelf and grabs a few paperbacks that he knows are his, and gets to work. He has one box half filled by the time Louis wanders out of the kitchen with his tea.
“The King of Soccer is mine,” Louis says, pointing. “Don’t even think about it.”
“I wasn’t going to take it,” Harry says, setting the Pelé biography down. “I was just moving it.”
Louis scoffs. “I bet.”
Harry’s about to retort when he unearths a hardcover of It Ends With Us. He looks up at Louis with a smirk.
“Really, Louis?” He shakes his head. “Colleen Hoover?”
“Fuck off,” Louis says before taking a sip of tea. “God, you’re so pretentious.”
“No, no,” Harry says, opening the book and pretending to flip through it. “I’m glad you’re broadening your horizons.”
Louis grabs the books from his hands.
“Sorry we can’t all be reading Bukowski, you curly haired cunt.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Harry says, standing up and dusting off his hands. “This is a waste of time. I’ll just come back when you’re not here; I have a showing in Delco that I have to get to.”
“But if I’m not here,” Louis says, as Harry stalks through the room and grabs his bag, “how will you unlock the door?”
Harry doesn’t bother dignifying Louis’ sarcasm with a response. He does slam the door behind him on the way out, though. That should tell Louis everything he needs to know.
Harry’s fuming as he walks over to his car. He has to look up the address for his showing in his calendar, and he thinks about all the things he could have said to Louis while he types it into his GPS. In fact, he doesn’t stop thinking about the things he should have said – about Louis’ work schedule, about how stubborn he is, about how he always dropped his dirty laundry on the floor instead of in the hamper – for the entire 45-minute drive. When he pulls over and parks in front of a midsize colonial, he frowns when he doesn’t see a For Sale sign in the well manicured front yard. And wasn’t he supposed to be showing a split level today?
A text pops up on the screen on his dash from the buyer he’s supposed to meet, asking if he’s on his way. Harry frowns, pulling up his calendar again and checking the number on the house.
Fuck.
He’s not at the right house. He’s not even on the right street. He’s at least twenty minutes away.
Harry grabs his phone and taps out an effusive apology, explaining that he will be there shortly but stopping short of making excuses. Then he double checks the address again before typing it in. He must have been so flustered by the argument that he’d put in the wrong address before.
Fucking Louis. This is all his fault.
*
Louis had tried to bow out of the drinks that Niall organized for their friend Paul’s birthday. It’s the middle of the week, he’s exhausted from work, and Harry’s going to be there. If he’s honest, Louis would rather get a root canal. But Niall put his foot down, so here Louis is, walking into a crowded bar and seeing that he’s the last to arrive.
“Lou!” Niall shouts, waving his hands over his head. “Over here!”
Louis nods, but he doesn’t walk over to the cluster of tables where his friends – and his ex – are chatting in groups of twos and threes. If he’s going to face Harry, he needs a Red Bull and vodka first. After a few fortifying sips, Louis finally wanders over to let Niall sweep him up in a hug. He looks around the bar top and sees that Zayn is looking down at his phone with his scientist face on. Harry meets his eyes and they share the kind of look they used to when they were together. When they were happy. Suddenly it doesn’t seem like that long ago.
Harry looks away first, and Louis curses himself for his weakness.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” Zayn says, seemingly out of nowhere, shoving his phone in Harry’s face. “An atomic clock can’t just be wrong. It measures time by monitoring the resonant frequency of atoms.”
“Uh-huh,” Harry says, squinting at the phone.
“But that has to be why all those phones didn’t update automatically for Daylight Savings last weekend.”
Louis groans. He’d missed a meeting on Monday because of that. Fucking Apple.
“It’s actually Daylight Saving Time,” Harry says, like he can’t help himself.
Louis and Niall both roll their eyes. It helps make up for the moment that had broken when Harry looked away first. Kind of.
“It couldn’t have been just an Apple glitch,” Zayn continues, like he didn’t even hear Harry correcting him. “Not from what I read.”
“Right. H, you want a drink?” Niall raises his hand in a fist, pointing at the bar behind him with his thumb. “I’m going up now.”
“Nah,” Harry replies, shaking his head. “I have a couple of closings tomorrow. Figured I’d be designated driver.”
Niall nods, then turns to Zayn, who’s looking down at his phone, clapping him on the back before he heads off.
It turns out Louis can’t help himself either. He rocks back on his heels as he says, “Right, right. That explains the horrible parking job I saw out front.”
Harry narrows his eyes at him.
“I mean, are you ever going to learn how to parallel park?”
“Are you?” Harry counters. “I parallel park just fine. You’re the one who can’t drive. Remember–”
“It had been three years since I’d driven a manual,” Louis interrupts, his heart racing. “You know that, I can’t believe you would bring this up again–”
“You’re the one who crashed into the Welcome to Maryland sign, not me. I’m just saying.”
“But even if one atomic clock was wrong,” Zayn says, as if they were still in the middle of that conversation, “they couldn’t all be wrong. It makes no sense.”
Harry rubs Zayn’s shoulder, his eyes still on Louis, as if he’s waiting for his counterargument.
Fine. He’s going to get one.
“Nice crowd tonight,” Louis remarks, looking around. “Is your friend Steve here?”
“Alright, alright,” Niall says as he approaches the table, pint glass in hand. “Break it up.”
He sets his glass down and crosses his arms, glaring first at Louis and then Harry.
“Enough, guys,” he says. “This has gone on long enough. You two have been at each other’s throats for weeks now. It has to stop. You have to stop.”
“Stop what?” Louis mutters, past caring that he sounds petulant even to his own ears.
“Stop putting me and Z in the middle,” Niall replies, gesturing to Zayn, who’s now looking up at them, tilting his head. “You’re adults, you can exchange your own mail. There’s enough fucked up stuff going on in the world; you can coexist for one night in the same bar without tearing each other’s heads off. Just stop.”
Zayn stands up and opens his mouth as if to say something. But then he looks back down at his phone and shakes his head before walking out of the bar without a word.
“Congrats,” Niall says, slow clapping his hands. “You broke Zayn. Good going.”
Louis watches Niall go after Zayn. He should do something – follow Niall, talk to Harry like an adult, go find Paul to say happy birthday. Instead he drains his drink and decides it’s time to go.
Fuck this, honestly.
*
“Do you know what this is about?”
Harry was asking Niall, but both he and Louis shake their heads. They’re crammed on the couch in Zayn’s apartment, Niall literally in the middle, waiting for their host to appear. After a couple of minutes of awkward silence, Zayn backs into the room slowly, wheeling a large whiteboard behind him. He places it across from the couch, and flips the board over. It’s covered with news clippings and printouts, and Zayn has used black and red markers to circle some things and draw arrows to connect others. Harry squints at a photo of a pigeon on a crosswalk.
“So,” he says, turning to face them. His eyes are bloodshot and his hair is sticking straight up. “You’re probably wondering why I called you here.”
“Zayn, what is this?” Louis asks, gesturing to the board. “Do you own a printer? It’s 2025, man.”
“Dude, are you okay?” Niall asks, leaning forward. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
“I’m fine, it’s only been five days,” Zayn says, his eyes wide. Almost manic. “But that’s not the point. The point is–”
“You made a murderboard,” Louis interrupts, studying it. “A pretty good one, I’d say.”
“I had to find the pattern,” Zayn says, grabbing a mug from the coffee table. He chugs whatever is in it. “There were all these pieces everywhere, and no one was putting them together, but what you said at the bar the other night, Ni, that was the missing piece. I put it all together, see?”
“What did I say the other night, buddy?” Niall asks, his voice soft like he’s approaching a wild animal.
“Weeks,” Zayn says, turning to the board and pointing. “It’s been weeks. The fucked up stuff in the world. It’s been happening for weeks, don’t you see?”
“To be fair, fucked up stuff has been going on for longer than–”
“No, no, no,” Zayn says, shaking his head. He takes a breath, squares his shoulders and looks at the three of them. “It’s all connected. All of this stuff,” he gestures to the board, “everything that’s been happening, it all points to a disturbance in the space-time continuum. And it’s been happening for weeks. Ever since you two split up.”
Harry and Louis exchange a glance.
“Us two?” Louis points between them.
“Look,” Zayn says, nodding and pointing at the board. “I traced it back to that lightning storm. That was the night Harry started staying with Niall. That thing on the train, Ni, you showed me the picture? That wasn’t just an optical illusion.”
“Yes, it was,” Louis insists. “It always looks like that.”
“No, not when you take everything else into account.” Zayn grabs a marker, uncaps it, and circles a news clipping with a photo of a plane. “Haven’t you heard the stories about planes landing early? It’s causing chaos at airports. The air traffic controllers have no idea what’s going on, but if you understand the concept of time dilation–”
“Let’s say we don’t,” Niall says gently.
“So you know how time passes slower on an airplane in flight? That’s–”
“Well,” Louis says, laughing a little. “I know that feels like it.”
“This is serious,” Zayn says, glaring at him. “There aren’t any Thursdays anymore, Louis.”
“There aren’t any…” Harry scans the board, trying to find what Zayn’s referring to. “Wait, what?”
“Haven’t you noticed? I stayed up to test it a couple of days ago. The clock flipped from 11:59 on Wednesday to midnight on Friday. I think it’s been doing it for a few weeks now. When’s the last time you saw a new episode of Grey’s Anatomy?”
“I don’t know, ten years ago?” Louis glances at Harry.
“Yeah, not since Cristina Yang left. Zayn, you’re probably just mixing up your days. That happens.”
“Especially if you’re not sleeping,” Louis adds.
“What were you telling us at the bar?” Niall asks, tilting his head. “Something about an atomic clock?”
“Don’t encourage him, Neil,” Louis mutters under his breath.
“Yes!” Zayn points his marker at Niall. “And look, look at this. Users have been reporting widespread GPS malfunctioning. Technologies like GPS rely on an understanding of space-time to function accurately.”
“So you think there’s a… space-time disturbance?” Harry asks, looking at the board again. It doesn’t look like anything to him. Just a bunch of clippings about unrelated events. And Harry really doubts that the issue, whatever it is, would affect pigeons.
“To put it in layman’s terms,” Zayn says, steepling his hands like a professor. “There’s a rip in the fabric of the universe. And it’s because of you. You have to get back together.”
“Okay,” Louis says, standing up. “This isn’t funny. You’re not going to Parent Trap us back together by taking a bunch of coincidences and–”
“You always say, there’s no such thing as coincidences,” Niall says. He lifts his hands as in surrender when Louis turns to glare at him. “What? You do.”
“That’s with cases,” Louis says, his voice withering. “There’s always an explanation. Shoddy police work, a killer stalking their victim for weeks because they happened to smile at them in the grocery store. You know what I mean when I say that, Niall.”
“It kind of…” Harry starts, shooting Zayn an apologetic smile. “It kind of seems like coincidences to me. Just, weird things happen. You know? It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“I’m serious,” Zayn says, dropping into a desk chair in the corner. “Things are going to keep getting worse. Bad things are going to keep happening if you two don’t–”
“Bye, Zayn,” Louis says loudly, turning around and walking out of the room. “Thanks for wasting my time.”
Harry shrugs and gets up, following him out. He feels bad just leaving, but Niall always knows how to deal with Zayn when he gets fixated on a problem like this. And Harry should really get going. It’s been taking longer to get to showings; he started relying on AAA maps because his GPS is still spotty. Not that that means anything.
*
Louis holds his backpack over his head as he jogs from his car to the front porch. It’s been raining for days, and he’s sick of it. People forget how to drive as soon as there’s a drop of water on the road, and his GPS must need an update because it sent him to the wrong side of town earlier. He refuses to believe Zayn was right about that. Or anything else, really. Louis just needs to get inside and take a long, hot shower and forget about this stupid day.
He tries to slide his key gently into the temperamental lock, but it won’t go. He tries again, jabbing it this time. Nothing. He’s rattling the door knob in frustration when the door swings open. Louis looks up to see a middle aged, balding guy in glasses staring at him.
“Yes?” The man looks Louis up and down. “Can I help you?”
“Uh, what the fuck?” Louis pushes the damp hair from his face with the back of his hand. “What are you doing in my house?”
“Your house?” The man stuffs his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels. “Are you quite alright, son? Been drinking?”
“No, I haven’t been– What are you doing? Get out of my house!”
The man opens the door wider and gestures behind him. A woman emerges from the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn, and a couple of kids are sitting on the couch in front of the TV. But it’s not the emerald green couch that Harry picked out; it’s a brown sectional. And the bookshelves are missing. Nothing looks like he left it this morning. Louis looks back at the man, bewildered.
“We’ve been here two years,” the man says, not unkindly. “Do you need me to call someone?”
“No, I don’t…” Louis takes a few steps back, looking at the house number. “What…”
He stumbles, and lands on the steps up to the porch. He grips the slick rail to steady himself, and stares up at the house while the man disappears behind the closed door.
It’s like he and Harry never lived here.
It’s like they never existed.
Louis ignores the rain drenching him, his thoughts whirling. Images from Zayn’s murderboard race through his mind. The planes. That bridge accident a few weeks ago. The fucking GPS.
Zayn was right.
It’s all connected.
He turns around and runs. He has to get to Harry.
He pounds the pavement, running the whole way to Niall’s apartment. If he can just get to Harry, they can figure this out.
They have to fix this.
He’s on the last block, his lungs burning and legs aching, when he hears a voice calling his name.
“Lou! Louis!”
It’s Harry. He’s on the sidewalk outside of Niall’s building, just as soaked as Louis.
“Harry,” Louis pants when he reaches him. He puts his hands on his waist and bends, trying to catch his breath. “Harry, you’ll never beli–”
“Lou,” Harry says, grabbing his arms and forcing him up. “There’s some other family in Niall’s apartment. They said they’ve been living there for months. I don’t know what to do, I don't know where he is–”
“I’m sorry,” Louis says, blinking as rain streams over his face. “I’m sorry I said you were flirting with Steve. I was just jealous.”
Harry’s lips part and he stares at Louis wordlessly.
“I should have looked at the MLS with you,” Louis continues, pushing his hair from his forehead. “I should have gone to the bank, it was my stupid pride–”
“No, no,” Harry says, cutting him off. “I shouldn’t have pushed you before you were ready!”
“No, I–”
“I’m sorry,” Harry yells over the din of the rain. “I’m sorry for being so hard on you about work. I know how important it is to you, and I know you feel responsible for not exploiting the people you cover, and that’s what makes you so good at it. I just missed you!”
“I hated It Ends With Us!” Louis yells back. “It was awful! I only read it because Lottie made me go to her book club.”
Harry laughs. It’s Louis’ favorite sound, kind of like a strangled goose honk.
“I love you!” Louis shouts. “I love you so much.”
“I love you, too!”
Louis puts his hand on the back of Harry’s neck and hauls him in for a kiss. Their lips crash together and Harry tastes like rain as Louis kisses him, over and over again. The rain suddenly stops, and they part, looking up at the sky.
“Is that good?” Harry asks, his eyes wild as he looks back at Louis.
“I don’t know,” Louis laughs. “Let’s call Zayn.”