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inkskinned · 1 year

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there are a lot of posts out there that are positive and healthy coping mechanisms for handling the holidays. this is not one of them :)

i think there's like. going to be times in your life you will be stuck in a social situation that you cannot escape from gracefully. i do not know why the internet doesn't believe these times exist. it's not always just that your physical safety is at risk - sometimes it's legit like "i just don't currently have the energy or time to put in the effort of responding to this." sometimes it's a coworker you hate so much. sometimes it's just like, fine, you know? like you know you can handle your aunt when she's cheerily horrible, but if you actually set a boundary around her, it's going to be weeks of fallout with your father.

i don't know why people think the answer is always just "cut them out!" or "don't let them get away with that!" because ... the real world is tricky and complicated. i think kind of a lot of us have an internal "radiation poisoning" meter for certain people. like - i'm talking about the ones who are absolutely giving you gradual ick damage. like, you can handle them, but you'll be exhausted.

and yes. you absolutely should listen to your therapist and the good posts about handling others and set good boundaries and take care of yourself. prioritize peace.

HOWEVER :) ...... since im often in a situation with a Gradual Sense of Ick person i cannot just "cut out" of my life (without losing someone else precious to me) - i have sort of developed the most. maladaptive form of mischief possible. because like, if i'm going to have to listen to this shit again, i like to have a little bit of private fun with it.

now! again, i am physically safe, just mentally drained by this man. you should only do this with people you are not in danger with. which leads me to my suggestions for when your Unfortunate Acquaintance shows up and says oh everyone pay attention to me.

my favorite word is "maybe!" said as brightly and happily as possible. whenever the Horrible Person starts in on a topic you do not want to go further with, particularly if they make a claim that you know to be inaccurate, do not respond to it. you and i have both tried to actually argue with this person, and it hasn't gone well, because this person just wants the drama of an argument. however, "maybe!" gives them literally nothing to go on. it is incredibly disarming. they are used to people having some response. they know they can't prove what they're saying, and maybe! treats them like the child they are. it dismisses them in the politest way possible.

i like to say maybe! and then, in their stunned silence, immediately change the subject. this is because i have adhd and i will have something unrelated to talk about, but if you can't think of topics fast enough, i recommend just pointing to something and saying, "isn't that lovely?" because fuck you let's bring in some positivity.

by the way. that second trick - of pointing to something and stating an opinion about it? - that just works on its own, like, 70% of the time. i picked it up from teaching preschoolers. it's an intentional "redirect". it stops children crying and it also stops grown adults from finishing their explanation on why women belong in kitchens. dual wielding!

keep it silly for yourself. i absolutely do not care if people think i'm fucking stupid (it's more fun if they do) and as a result i will purposefully misunderstand things just to see how long it takes them to realize i've completely removed them from the subject at hand. when they say "women aren't funny" i get to be like. "which women." "all women." "all women in america?" "no in the world." "like the mole people? the people in the world?" "what? no. like, alive." "oh are we not counting the mole people?" "what the fuck are you talking about." "you don't believe in the mole people?"

similarly, i play a personal game called "one up me." my Evil Acquaintance literally knows this game exists (my family & friends caught onto it and now also play it) and it always fucking gets him. i don't know why. you have to be willing to be a little free-spirited on this one, though. the trick is that when they make one of those horrible little bigoted or annoying comments they are always making, you need to go one unit weirder. not more intense, mind you - just more weird. "you don't look good in that dress." "yeah, actually, my other dress was covered in squid ink due to a mishap at the soup store." "you shouldn't wear such revealing clothes." "wait, what? oh shit. sorry, your son tears off strips when no one is looking and eats them. i swear it was longer before we left the building."

the point of "one up me" is to completely upend this person's narrative. we both know this person likes setting up situations where you cannot "win" and then they really like telling other people how badly you handled it. in a usual situation, if you respond "please don't say something that rude", you're a bitch. but if you let it happen, you're letting yourself be debased. they are not usually expecting door number three: unflappably odd. because what are they going to say when they're telling everyone how badly you behaved? "she said my son eats her dresses" ".... okay?"

if you can, form an allyship with someone whomst you can tagteam with. where they can pick up on your weird "soup store" story and run with it.

the following phrase is amazing and can be deployed for any situation: "oh, be nice :) it's the holidays!" i do not know why this works as often as it does. i'll say it for the most random shit. i think this is bc most of the time these people know they're being impolite, they just like to fight.

godbless. when in doubt, remember that you could always start stealing their pens.

the whole point of this is - if you can't escape. maybe see how long you can just be. like. a horrible little menace.

#this is objectively bad advice #don't listen to it protect yourself and do real work on yourself find one of the good posts i've made about this #but also. u know. if u want to have fun while u do the work of setting boundaries #.... it IS fun #i will say that my fear of him went SO down after i just started. fucking with him.#bc i used to get SO fucking upset #i'd spend WEEKS arguing with him. tearing my hair out. sick with anxiety and dread and anger about all of it #and now i just LITERALLY do not engage #instead i'm like '' haha :) mole people" and get the HELL out of any tense conversation #i kind of think some of these people are literally addicted to drama as a form of connection #they like the rush they get from arguing #but those arguments are incredibly damaging for me #so like..... i am in the process of literally rehabilitating this person to figure out how to find connection thru #NORMAL CONVERSATION #he doesn't get it yet #i also do talk to them like they're preschool kids lmafo . ''are you using a safe and kind voice right now?''#'' do you need a snackie? you sound a little upset. let's have some hummus and come back to playtime when we feel ready''

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yeahimwiththeband · 1 year

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--> with the band chapter 16

Happy New Year, Izzy

warning: social anxiety, big time. jump scare. horror? for someone with anxiety, horror.

A/N: izzy is THRIVING. and then she hears what her ex George has been up to. love on tour AU, angst!harry.

word count: 5.7k

Izzy picked up her phone and sent yet another message to Lydia. She had been back home from the tour for just four days and had heard nothing from either her or Harry. Or anyone.

As soon as she sent it, her phone rang. Izzy put it to her ear right away.

“Harry?” Izzy asked hopefully.

Static on the other end.

“Izzy, it’s Lydia.” Lydia’s voice sounded shaky. Izzy was ecstatic and concerned at the same time.

“Oh my god, thank god,” Izzy said, “I’m so happy to hear your voice!” Izzy mouthed to Olivia: it’s Lydia! Olivia gave a tight smile, put the keys back in Izzy’s hand, and left the room.

“Izzy,” Lydia said, steadying her voice. “I have something to tell you...George and I are together.”

“George… Do you mean Mitch?” Izzy asked desperately.

“No.”

“George from the tour George?”

“Yes.”

“You and George,” Izzy repeated. She wanted to make sure she was hearing correctly.

“Yes.”

“We got together after you and him broke up.”

“3 days ago. 3 days ago we broke up. And now you and George—“

“I’m sorry, I know it’s fast. I know it’s too fast. I’ve liked him for a while and you seemed so happy, but then you slept with Harry and it was obvious it wasn’t real between you two.”

“That’s fair,” Izzy said. She didn’t feel angry that they were together—she felt betrayed, betrayed at the lie. That her closest family member had liked the guy she dated for months, and not said a word. “How could you hide that from me, Lydia? That you liked him?”

“You needed him more than me.”

“That’s not for you to…” Izzy felt her anger bubble up into her voice, but she didn’t want to yell and have Lydia hang up. “I’m responsible for myself. I’m responsible for myself, and you’re responsible for yourself. You didn’t have to manage me that way. You should have said something.”

Silence on the other end.

“Were you… were you waiting for us to break up?”

“No, no. I meant it when I said I just wanted you to be happy.”

“I know,” Izzy said. She remembered their conversation on the beach. Lydia saying she was sorry.

“I tried to tell you, on the beach. I couldn’t do it. You were finally happy and thriving. You wouldn’t have stayed on the tour if you and George had broken up—you would have gone back home. It was the only way to keep you there and you wanted to be there so badly, instead of at home.”

Izzy took all this in. She felt her anger transfer somewhere else.

“Did George like you too, the whole time we were together?”

“No, no. I don’t think so. This is probably just a rebound,” Lydia said, laughing weakly. Her voice wasn’t believable.

“Why date someone I dated pretty seriously for months so quickly afterwards if it’s not even that serious for you? George just developed feelings over the last 3 days?”

“Maybe he used to have them, and then they went away when he met you. I sincerely believe that. When he met you, I think he found the answer to everything, and then it didn’t turn out like you thought - you said it wasn’t working. You said you weren’t happy.”

“Could you… is he there? Could you put him on the phone?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Izzy.”

“Maybe he shouldn’t be dating anybody right now. He’s running from something. He’s into some pretty hard stuff, Lydia—needle stuff. I saw him shooting something at that party. It’s not good. It’s not being a real artist. He’s just an addict. He needs help.”

“You don’t get—” Lydia started. “It’s different for him, for the band. They’re not regular people, Izzy, and it’s not normal life. It’s not supposed to be. And besides, he’s getting better.”

“I want you to get better too,” Izzy said. “Maybe the tour isn’t the best place for you either. I’m making a new life for myself here and it’s not what it was before. You could come home and we could—

“I’m not coming home, Izzy.”

Izzy paused. She felt like she had bungled it: she had a golden opportunity in the conversation to bring Lydia home, and she had failed. “You always can,” Izzy said.

“I know,” Lydia replied.

Izzy felt like she was back in the wreckage again and that this time she had found the whole black box. George and Lydia. George and Lydia?! George and Lydia. She remembered George pulling her out on stage at Inglewood in front of 10,000 people and telling them all that he was in love with her.

“When you said maybe he used to have them, that he maybe used to have feelings for you, what do you mean?”

Lydia ducked the question. “He was in love with you, Izzy, or the you that you let him see. His feelings for you were real.”

“Jess was right. My anxiety makes me blind. I didn’t see it, but that makes sense. Of course he liked you. But then why date me?”

“Because he really liked you. Honestly. He really, really did. The thing with Harry… it really killed his feelings, quickly. He said he could tell something was off in the last week, that you were maybe not feeling it…”

“Please don’t talk about me with him,” Izzy begged. “I can’t stand the thought of that.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

“You and George. I can’t wrap my mind around it. You couldn’t have waited, like, a week or something? It just makes the whole thing - everything I went through with him - seem fake, from his side.”

“You were the one that was faking it with him. His feelings were real. Your feelings were always somewhere else.”

“I am sorry about that, that I lied to him. It didn’t feel like I was lying… I really wanted it to all be good, and I didn’t want it to stop. It wasn’t a fake relationship, though, Lydia. A lot of the moments we had were very real. This is so fast.”

“You know how things are here, how chaotic it is.” Izzy remembered where Lydia was: out in California. Maybe calling her from the apartment she was supposed to share with George.

“He needed a decision from me on whether or not I was going on with the tour to follow Jess or staying back with him. I had to decide fast, so Jess could find somebody else… Since you didn’t want to go on with Harry like I thought maybe you would.”

“It wasn’t cool of George to put you in that position, to try to start something up so quickly with you and have you quit your job like that.”

“I still have a job, Izzy - I’m still going to be helping him with his socials. Still working for Ryan.”

“Don’t even get me started on Ryan,” Izzy said.

“I don’t like him either.”

Izzy felt herself welling up all of a sudden. Her cousin wouldn’t budge, on anything. “I’m really worried about you,” Izzy said through tears. “I’m just really worried about you. You told me once at the beginning of the tour that all I had to be was honest, so that’s what I’m trying to do, even if I failed earlier with George. Here’s the truth: I should have left earlier. The tour… it’s so good, I know. That life is so beautiful and fun, but the drugs. Did you see what happened to Tara? And George is in so much trouble, and the drugs are causing the problem and are also the way that he runs from it. You just can’t do that stuff, Lydia. You don’t have to—you can still have so much fun out there without needing a bump.”

“You’re the one that ran,” Lydia said.

Izzy sighed.

“You’ve forgotten how good it is out here,” Lydia continued. “Come back. Come back to the beach. Harry will be here for more shows in January. Izzy, I know that you’re in love with him.” Izzy almost dropped the phone. “Don’t you see? Everything that is meant to happen is happening. Me and George, and you and Harry.”

Izzy put her hand up to her face. “It doesn’t feel like everything is working out,” Izzy said. “It feels like a fucking plane crash. I still don’t understand what happened. You’re not telling me everything.”

“I just want you to be happy, Izzy.”

“I just want you to be happy!”

“Come back out here,” Lydia repeated.

“Come home,” Izzy said.

“I love you. I’ll call again soon.”

“I love you too,” Izzy said. “Please be careful.”

Lydia hung up.

Izzy stared down at her phone, hoping and praying that she had dreamed the conversation somehow. That she would wake up. But no, it was real. George and Lydia.

Izzy sat down in the middle of her floor.

Tears started to fall down her cheeks. She felt volcanically angry at George and so, so worried about her cousin. The conversation ended so quickly, the opportunity to talk Lydia into doing something else just slipped away. Lydia hadn’t even sounded like herself: she normally asked questions and listened, instead of spewing advice. Izzy reprimanded herself for not listening better and asking more questions herself; maybe that would have helped Lydia see how insane and fast this was. The anger and anxiety climbed up Izzy’s body like fire, burning her scalp. Izzy put her face in her hands and sobbed. She wanted something to cut the feeling, to take the edge off—a bump, anything. But there was nothing to do but to cry. Who was she going to call to complain? Harry? Harry who hadn’t responded to any of her messages? She was crying about him, too. Her heart was broken. A bitter thought, one she thought she destroyed, resurfaced: Sometimes I think love is for other people.

The next morning, Izzy skipped her first class at the community college. Noon rolled around and she went downstairs, happy to help her mom catch a break by taking over the register at the store. Sitting behind the counter, looking out at the familiar street past the mannequins, Izzy felt her old life pulling her in like quicksand. She felt numb. It all seemed too hard, all of a sudden, like it had before she went on the tour: trying to get a real job, trying to move out. She felt wounded and just wanted to hide back where it was safe. The store was easier and she felt her daydreams calling her; she could just put in her headphones now and drift away. Her thoughts darted back to that first night at the concert, dancing with Meg and Lydia. George slinging his arm around her shoulders in the green room. Waking up on the plane. Lying with Harry in the grass at the co-op under the wisteria. Climbing up on that streetlight. She could sit here and remember it forever. She checked her phone again. Still no message from Harry. Not one.

There was another possibility, too: she could run. The keys to a house or a hut or a piece of land in Italy were sitting upstairs in her room, a total surprise—an unexpected gift from the past. And Mrs. Shepherd wanted her to go. That means I should go, right? Izzy wanted to run. The smoke from the crash wasn’t clearing, it was getting thicker. She couldn't see at all. She hadn’t seen clearly for months, just like Jess said. How had she missed George and Lydia and whatever feelings and vibes there were? She wanted out. She thought about Lydia’s offer, fleeing back to California. What would she even do there? Sleep on Lydia and George’s couch, hang out at the studio, maybe OD and end up at the hospital like Tara?

Izzy felt like she was melting into her chair behind the cash register where she had spent so much time. She was supposed to go to the plant nursery in the afternoon to sign her health insurance paperwork. This third option, between staying and running, now seemed impossible—the little plan she had made with Olivia seemed too hard: the new job, the new training and later, a new apartment.

Izzy twisted around to the three-pane mirror and surveyed her slumped over, fragmented reflection. She thought about Mrs. Shepherd and her own grandmother, Ila. Moving to America, building a life piece by piece. She thought about her mom, fighting to keep everything together. Surviving, despite losing her mom and sister.

The jingle of the shop door opening brought Izzy out of her fog. Olivia stood at the threshold, dressed for her new job at the music store. She eyed Izzy up and down and her eyes went soft.

“I felt there was something going on with George and Lydia,” she said. “Not while you were together, but there are vibes. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“It’s okay. It wasn’t your responsibility,” shrugged Izzy.

“Let’s go. You have your paperwork, and I have my first shift.”

“I’m feeling kind of tired,” Izzy said. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

“Let’s go,” Olivia said, more assertively than Izzy had ever heard her speak. Whatever twinge of anger Izzy felt at Olivia for holding information back faded away. Izzy stood up, switched the store sign to closed, and let Olivia march her to the nursery, where she felt like she could take deep breaths again. Izzy filled in her details, signed all the forms, and even had an impromptu training shift from the eccentric owner, Reedy, about the importance of spritzing the ferns hourly. The next day, she made it to her 8 AM class. The day after that, she did it again. Time seemed to speed up. One step followed another. After George posted the first photo of him and Lydia together, Izzy deleted Instagram from her phone. She worked and went to class. By the end of November, She had saved up almost $6,000 living at home and working. On Saturdays, she worked at the store, and to keep busy, on Sundays she added an extra shift at the nursery. The busyness dulled down the constant ringing in her head: is Lydia okay is Lydia okay is Lydia okay. The ringing had started soon after Izzy joined the tour, and grew deafening after that phone call. She and Lydia sent polite texts back and forth, so superficial that they broke Izzy’s heart. Olivia got an apartment, and when her roommate fell through in December, Izzy moved in. The apartment was above a dentist’s office near the community college: not glamorous at all. It definitely wasn’t the Riot Hyatt—but it was better, because it was all theirs. The rent was $1,200 per month, enough for them to split while still saving; they curtained off the living room to turn it into Izzy’s bedroom. They painted the walls blue and purple and had laughing fits while trying to pull off the painter’s tape off cleanly. Izzy put a record player in her room and had Meg and Lauren over to celebrate her new place, toasting with the cheapest red wine they could find in recycled jars over a table made of milk crates. Izzy loved working at the nursery and was learning more and more about all the species she had admired but couldn’t name before. She was doing well in her courses, but not letting her anxiety drive her into a perfectionist frenzy. For 2023, with Olivia’s encouragement, Izzy planned to sign up for landscape architecture courses. She daydreamed about the best parts of the tour, and tried not to ruminate on everything that went wrong. She remembered how Harry had embraced her even after he found out about her lack of experience—and Meg’s kind words, years ago: love is for you too, Izzy.

It was a good thing that Izzy got a steep discount on plants at the nursery, because she had so many in her room she had trouble getting to her book collection sometimes: two giant Caladium Moonlights arched around them, leaves resting on the shelves. Olivia hung up her guitars in the living room and Izzy played sometimes in the evening. Olivia sometimes Facetimed with Lisa, Jess, and Tara. Izzy always found an excuse to go out.

Olivia moved around the house in a light, easy way that Izzy admired; the musician was so relieved to be out from under Ryan’s thumb, out of the constant pressure of the live performances. Olivia played the guitar and worked on some new melodies some evenings. Izzy found herself smiling more often, her shoulders loosening up. She really admired Olivia, who was a lot more steely than she let on: she was strong. Olivia seemed like a fragile, floaty, spiritual person on the tour, but she was actually rock solid—otherwise, Izzy realized, she would have been totally crushed by the band. Copying Olivia’s example, Izzy painted a green and pink mural of abstract shapes on the wall opposite her bed, and had dragged in bookshelves they found on a curb in the snow and cleaned up. Just as she had done with her clothes in New York, she chose furniture that really felt like her; her new bedroom was colorful and warm, so different than the brown room she had escaped. The keys to the house in Italy collected dust on top of a small pile of books.

Izzy was doing what she had expected to do before the accident derailed her, but it was all so different than it might have been because of what she learned on the tour. One afternoon just before Christmas, Izzy sat in her new bed and looked out her windows, partially fogged up from all the humidity the plants created. She felt proud of herself. She hadn’t chosen to run or stay. Instead, she went with the third option: grow.

Still, sometimes Izzy felt a restlessness tugging on her sleeves, tickling her wrists and ankles. She knew what the feeling was. Lying in her bed alone at night, her mind always ran back to that voice, those eyes, those hands: Elisabetta. I know I’m not the only one. You’re so nice, and I hate that about you.

Suddenly, it was Christmas. She and Olivia would start new courses in the second week of January, so they had a bit of a break for the week between the 25th and New Years: Izzy only had a few shifts, and planned to spend a ton of time with Meg, who had finally earned some vacation time three months into her new gig.

On Christmas Day, the sky was grey but bright and Izzy went over to her parents’ first thing in the morning. She took the bus over to her parents’ apartment as a grown up for the first time—presents under her arm, side dish she made in her own oven carefully balanced in one hand. Her mom and dad had put up the tree, like every year, with lots of homemade decorations from the store’s most glittery fabric samples. Boxing Day Sale posters piled up in Izzy’s old room, which had become an office of sorts. And her mom seemed fine, happy—almost excited. Izzy felt grateful. Christmas at home was more beautiful than she remembered, because it no longer happened in a place she was trying to escape.

For the first time, Izzy didn’t notice presents under the Christmas with her name on them. After breakfast, her parents opened their gifts (a dark, soft bolt of silk Izzy had found at the thrift store, and a history of baseball book for her dad). Once the wrapping paper was cleared away, her mom slid a small piece of paper across the table to Izzy.

“Just for a week,” her mom said. “Do you think you and Meg would like to go? We have two tickets.”

Izzy unfolded the sheet of paper. On it, a flight itinerary to Sicily.“I can’t accept this, mom—it’s way too much.”

Her mom took Izzy’s hand and shook her head. She explained that she had been to Italy several times while her mother was still alive, and returning now was too painful for her.

“The store is doing well,” her dad said. “Don’t worry about us. This is what Ila would have wanted for you.”

Mrs. Shepherd’s words boomed in Izzy’s mind: Go! Dance! It wasn’t running if she was just going for a week, right?

…

Izzy knew she made the right choice when she saw the blue of the Mediterranean from the window of the plane. It was so pretty that it looked impossible, unreal. She had never been to Europe. Never been outside the country.

Two bus rides and one 2 mile walk later, Izzy, Meg, and Olivia came to a stop in a cloud of gold dust on a gravel road that wound along the sea. It was about 80 degrees, and the sun was bright and warm. Google Maps said they were at the house, but they only saw a heavy, sunken iron gate in the middle of a long, crumbling stone wall.

The land was scrubby and hard, tall brown grass and dark green groves of olives and figs and blood oranges. The air smelt like lemons and salt. Cactuses and palm trees stretched up behind the wall, dangling orange studded fruits over at them—Ficodindia di San Cono, prickly pear, as Izzy had learned from a local influencer she had been following. This area of Sicily was usually pretty quiet, but it had been getting more and more popular; a bougie seaside resort had opened near the next town and some celebrities had even parked their yachts off the coast in the summer.

“It’s giving Under the Tuscan Sun,” Meg said. Izzy reached out and grabbed one of the fruits, and the three of them split it, while staring at the gate. They had walked two miles to get to the address. Izzy had the keys in her hands. She was so glad that Olivia and Meg decided to join her: Meg took the free flights as a “sorry I cost you your job” gift from Izzy, and Olivia had saved up enough to come on her own. Staying at the hostel helped, and everything in Sicily had been dirt cheap so far.

Olivia dropped her thrifted backpack. Meg did the same.

The gate was obviously rusted shut.

“We should probably go back into town and get someone,” Izzy said. As she was saying it, Olivia hopped over one of the crumbling stone walls.

“Get who?” Meg asked. “A blacksmith?”

Izzy heard an “oh my god” from the other side of the wall.

“Remember the last time we broke in somewhere?” Meg asked with a smile.

“The first concert, Lydia shoving us through the backstage no access doors,” Izzy said.

They looked at the gate.

Izzy unclipped her backpack, dropped it with a THUD, and hopped over. Meg followed her.

The house was small; stone, with a slate roof, and three windows upstairs over a centered door. But Izzy honestly barely noticed it: she was looking at the garden. Meg put her hands on her shoulders and they gazed at it in awe.

The house sank into a rolling field of yellow flowers that grew over tangled, knotty roots of old olive trees before disappearing over an edge with the blue sea behind it: the house was on a cliff overlooking the water. Each window had a flower box stuffed with purple anemones and bougainvillea vines of pink flowers climbed up the left side and covered the chimney. Heavy aloe plants guarded the house on each corner and poppies grew out of the stone steps leading up to the door. A gardener lived here: not just a gardener, but some sort of plant genius. The house hadn’t been rented for at least ten years. It had been her great grandparents’, and her grandmother Ila had left it behind before she turned 20 for a new life.

Meg took the keys from Izzy’s hands and walked up to the house, Olivia following her, while Izzy walked around it to look at the ocean. A falling-down fence rooted in place by tall grasses held back the flowers from the cliff, which was a short drop down to a white sand beach. Steps worn by the seawater led up to a small opening in the fence; the gardener had planted cactuses on the outside of every step, like fence posts. The house was on a small cove a few miles from the nearest town, which Izzy could just barely see around the east corner. Izzy peered around the west corner of the cove; there was a sand path leading to a connected beach, revealing miles and miles of coast line dotted with pretty houses, some old and some new. Looking at the coastline, Izzy realized why her and Lydia’s mothers always took them to the beach. It’s because it was a place that their mothers’ loved. Izzy imagined Mrs. Shepherd and Ila as girls there at the house, hopping up and down the steps to go swimming.

Izzy carefully took off her shoes and socks and walked down the steps to the water, pausing on the last one. She couldn’t believe that nothing on Instagram had captured the ocean properly: the greens and blues were so much brighter in person. Her feet sank down and water pooled around them, pulling her in. Izzy hiked up her pants and walked into the water, soothing and cool. She laughed. She had so much. The restlessness and the ringing finally left her alone.

Izzy looked back up at the house, which had six windows on the back and a stone patio under olive trees, obviously designed for the view. Olivia waved from a window on the second floor.

“Everything that’s mean to happen is happening,” Olivia called down. Izzy had always wondered where Lydia learned that phrase.

“Izzy, it’s really pretty in here,” Meg said from a nearby window. “Black and white tile floor. Every window has a flower box.”

They ran some basic errands in the village using translator apps and Izzy’s broken Italian, getting the power hooked back up to the house ($1,400!), getting the water turned back on ($260!), getting a contractor to fix the gate and some of the broken stairs inside ($2,300!), and scheduling an inspection so it could be lived in again ($430!). That night, Izzy fell asleep on the bottom bunk in their hostel room as soon as her head hit the pillow. It was New Year’s Eve the next day and she felt like a new person.

Olivia and Meg had floated several ideas to end 2022: the hostel bar was having a party, in the little gap between houses where they had built a small library and put some tables and chairs. They could celebrate at the house, with candles. Or, there was a tarot card reader doing 2023 readings out of the shop next door (the language barrier was an issue). They weren’t permitted to go back up to the house while the inspection was being conducted, so over breakfast they traded ideas. There was a beautiful old mansion that someone had snapped just a few weeks ago; it had been in ruins, but it was being fixed up. It was famous for its huge music room / library, which looked like something out of Beauty and the Beast but better in the video—Italian, baroque marble insanity with peeling gold leaf and elaborate, curling wood carvings on the shelves and ceilings. They had four more days before they were going home, and they planned to see Noto (birth place of ice cream, Meg’s choice), Giardini de Balio (the most beautiful gardens in Sicily, Izzy’s choice), and Rockerilla (music venue famous across Europe, Olivia’s choice). Izzy hadn’t come up with a plan for the house yet. The upkeep costs were minimal and she didn’t know if she wanted to rent it out or what, but she knew fixing it up would help whatever she decided to do.

Olivia made an impassioned case for going to Rockerilla, apparently one of Jess’s favorite spots and well know among real artists—it was like an overseas, Italian hangout for international rock stars. They decided they would go on their last night, to celebrate before going home (best for last).

That day, they decided to go to the mansion with the library; it was a boring enough excursion before a big New Years night out. Izzy caked herself in sunscreen and they took a bus down the dusty road over a few hills to the west of the town, past the house by over an hour, on the other side of the island. Izzy was able to ask the driver to per favore, ferma and they hopped off in front of the mansion, alone on its own hill—it was expansive, and under construction. Metal construction fences encircled the property. It was quiet; no one was on site. Huge signs in Italian with clear do not enter icons glared down at them from the fences.

Before Izzy could ask what they should do, Olivia was through the fence and striding toward the door.

“This is private property!” Izzy said.

“No one is here,” Olivia called over her shoulder. “We are calm. We are relaxed.”

Meg followed Olivia.

“Meg!” Izzy cried, gesturing to the signs.

"I don’t speak Italian,” said Meg.

Izzy took a breath and stomped after them. She had already broke and entered earlier that day, into her own home. Why not go two for two?

The villa was massive; a single story in stone with colums supporting pointed archways. It was a pretty mishmash of styles, added too over the centuries. The windows were huge, and you could see the ocean peeking through from the other side. Olivia picked up the heavy metal knocker and let it slam against the door; they could hear the loud clang echo through the house.

There was no response to the loud knock. No one was home. Izzy turned around to leave, and Olivia turned the heavy door knob until it clicked. The door opened. They were in. Meg walked in first. Izzy shot Olivia a skeptical look.

“Did you ever think we’d be here?” Olivia asked. “Could you have imagined this last summer?” Izzy shook her head, no. If she hadn’t gone on the tour, she absolutely wouldn’t be here now. She’d be in the store, behind the cash register, slowly dying inside. Izzy followed Meg inside. They were in a wide hallway in front of a small inner sanctum surrounded by columns and overgrown with ferns and shrubs. There was a ladder at one end of the hallway, and scaffolding up to the ceiling. Olivia had her phone out.

“It says it’s in the west wing, so… down there.”

“What if there’s someone here?” Izzy asked. But her concern was half hearted: the house was so beautiful, she didn’t really mind that they were breaking and entering. She was reminded a bit of the first time Lydia had shoved her and Meg through that backstage door.

They walked past a massive room, with huge wooden beams and a beautiful marble tiled floor, that was being painted. It was empty, except for a huge piano that looked new, pointed out toward the ocean. Everything else was covered in dust except the keys. None of the lights in the house were on. It was even brighter and hotter that day, but the house was cool and shadowed. Izzy took off her sunglasses and put them in her fanny pack.

“I think it’s through here,” called Olivia. She and Meg disappeared around a corner. Izzy had fallen behind them, transfixed by the piano.

She walked across the courtyard, into the library—she had found it. She could hear Olivia and Meg down the hall. Light streamed in from towering windows looking out over the ocean and the walls were lined with books, some too shiny to be that old. The ceiling had a blue and gold painting of a constellation, with ivy winding up toward it from a crack behind a huge, open stone fireplace. Izzy ran her hand along one of the tables, walking and taking in the ceiling painting. Her fingers hit on something and she stopped: she almost wiped a tea cup, saucer, and open book off the table. The tea cup was full with hot water, still steaming. Someone was home.

She heard a sharp intake of breath from outside. “Izzy?” She spun around. She could only see a silhouette against the ocean. Izzy briefly contemplated turning and running. She could run all the way back to town using anxiety alone as her fuel; that’s how much her anxiety had spiked, just hearing that voice. Her heart hammered in her ears. She walked toward the voice slowly, already knowing who it was, and seeing no other way out of the situation, though she kept trying to think of them.

When Izzy finally made it outside to the patio, the sun nearly blinded her. She blinked hard and her sunscreen ran into her eyes, so she had to drag up her shirt to dab them. It was so bright compared to the interior. The figure came into focus slowly.

“Harry,” she said, blinking the sting out of her eyes. “Hi.”

“Hello,” he replied. He wore a t-shirt over trousers with flip flops, and sunglasses that he had taken off to double check that it was really her, thousands of miles from home, standing on his patio.

“We were—we were in Italy for my family. Well, my family’s not here. Olivia made me come here. I didn’t know that anyone was home. I’m so sorry.” Izzy’s eyes burned. Strugs.

“Your family is here?” Harry asked. His voice was open and kind, shockingly open and kind, Izzy thought, given that she had broken into his house. Is this his house? He extended a tissue toward her and she took it, hand shaking, dabbing her eyes so she could finally see straight. He came into brutal focus then: two curls coming down over his forehead, gold flecks in the green twinkling at her in the sun, and a smile on his lips almost too slight for Izzy to notice.

“My grandmother is from here,” Izzy stammered. “I inherited her house. I was here to look at the house, and Olivia said she wanted to come here to look at the library—it was listed as a tourist destination in this video. I wanted to see the gardens; I’m sort of obsessed with plants.”

“I know.”

“I had no idea… we thought it was abandoned.”

“Right,” Harry said. “I bought it a few months ago.”

“I thought you were back in California,” Izzy said, blushing deeply.

“I needed to clear my head.” Harry couldn’t look away from her.

They stood in awkward silence. Izzy couldn’t think of any social conventions to fall back on for when you break into the home of someone you once slept with, who said he was crazy in love with you and then ditched you after you said some terrible things to him. Nothing came to mind. She wanted to laugh—the whole situation was just so ridiculous.

“Where’re you staying?” Harry asked, trying to help.

“We’re at the Ostello Estremamente Economico, about two hours away. We took the bus.” Hearing her speak Italian made Harry smile. He couldn’t help it.

“What are you doing for tonight, Izzy?”

chapter 17 -->

#harry styles au #love on tour au #harry styles #love on tour #harry styles fic #love on tour fic #hslot #angst!harry #romance #fluff #italy for some reason #under the tuscan sun vibes #personal growth #anxiety feels #anxiety disorder #2023 goals #romance readers #grumpyrry

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