#note I taught myself IN MY MID TWENTIES my first build was only a few years ago
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8. T R O U B L E I N P A R A D I S E
Moodboard // Content // Masterlist
Disclaimer:
All characters and situation in this story are fictitious. Resemblance to any person living or dead is only God knows.
Previous chapter :
Y/N cried out of the how fast he rocked her, the way he slammed back and forth made her wanted to pass out anytime. Before Harry got the chance, he slid out of her on time – seeing his thick cum squirted from his tip all over her and him. Slowly, he lowered Y/N legs, quickly support her body because he knew how weak her legs were.
8. TROUBLE IN PARADISE
They both roamed each other body with a foamy bath sponge softly after the sex they had earlier. Harry was laughing when Y/N seductively rubbed his shoulder blades, down to his chest, and ended in his tummy. However, he quickly warned her if she didn't want to get another trembling leg. He could fuck her right here, right now – if she couldn't keep her hands. She immediately took the note and began to wash his hair. Being the cheeky man he was, Harry stole kisses here and there when she was brushing his wet hair out of his eyes.
After finished their shower, Harry carried her out to the en-suite. Plopped her down onto the small chair in front of the massive mirror, he gave her her bathrobe and towel to dry herself.
“Do you want me to bring your clothes, sweetheart?” he asked while tying his bathrobe strap. Y/N shook her head, “I'll take them myself, but thank you.”
“Oh, your legs aren't trembling anymore?”
“It's a little sore but it's okay, I can bear the pain.”
“It seems I failed to make you unable to walk, didn't I?”
“Harry!” her face hot in embarrassment, she rubbed her face to ease the feeling. Harry just shook his head before heading out to get dressed.
After she got to dress up and dried her hair, Y/N walked to the living room. Her eyes found Harry who was working on his laptop. From the way he furrowed his eyebrows, something wrong came up and he didn't like it. She sauntered to him and stood behind his back. Her hand started to rub his shoulder and gave him a massage to ease his stress, tense muscle.
“What's wrong? Your muscle is so tense.” She questioned, hands squeezing his sore spot.
“Brendan from Finance department send me the trimester report. I don't know if he messed up the number or... there's a possibility of financial abuse in the company.” He sighed, eyes up and down the Excel on his screen.
“Trimester? It's only early December. They won't be due until mid- January, right?” Y/N asked in confusion, her palm still massaging his shoulder.
“It's July – September reports actually, they were late sending in October because their reports weren't matching.”
“How many?”
“Around £15,000.”
"Holy shit." She whispered –couldn't help her surprise.
“I just hope my eyes were playing tricks on me or he messed up the number.” He said, “Remind me on Monday to call him to my office, yeah?”
“Will do, Mr Styles.”
“Heyy..” He whined, putting his laptop aside. His hand grasped her hips so she could sit on his lap, “What was that?”
She shrugged, pinching his nose playfully, “You give me command of work.”
“Anyway, why wouldn't we shop for Christmas? I mean.. your house needs some Christmas joy.” She added, her eyes glancing around his interior.
“All right, let me grab my keys.” He smiled, kissing her cheek before standing up.
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Monday came faster than she thought. When her legs carrying her to her building, she saw some workers were putting up Christmas decoration. She smiled, feeling the excitement over the holy day. Her Christmas decoration shopping with Harry a few days ago led them buying a new Christmas tree, which somewhat bigger than Harry had. Although they know they wouldn't celebrate the eve together, Harry couldn't resist the puppy eyes she gave when she asked him to buy the tree.
While she stepped out from the lift into her floor, it was like she's the one arrive first. She knew Harry would come late since he had a meeting outside the office, and Madeleine always came later than her.
A few months of being in a relationship, they both agreed to keep their relationship hidden from the employees. Y/N hadn't ready for the whole company to know about them. So, they kept it as a secret and private.
Harry came to his office by one in the afternoon and asked Brendan's presence immediately. Now, Harry was seeing him and his co-worker. She could see them through the glass that separated their office. His body leaned back, both of hands on his stomach. From the look on his eyes, Y/N was sure he was feeling disappointed yet a slight relieve. Not long after, he dismissed their presence. She grabbed her phone, quickly send him a short message.
“Good news?”
Her phone buzzed, Harry instantly replied to her text.
“They messed up the number, no money was abused. They bring an audit report to prove. But I was upset because they did twice the same mistakes.”
“That's a relief then.”
“Fancy lunch together? I heard Marriot have a new menu. A friend of mine told me that it's recommended. I won't take a no, meet me in the lobby in 15.”
Y/N rolled her eyes, that was one of Harry's habit. Forced something. When her eyes switched look to his office, she saw Harry winking at her before taking his key car and head out.
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“Hello, darling.” Harry happily kissed her cheek, “What are you doing?”
When he came home, he couldn't find Y/N anywhere. He was a little panicked, but he could breathe relief when he saw her sitting on the balcony. Her hair was in a high bun, legs folded together with eyes glued to her laptop screen.
“I'm looking for a gym nearby. I haven't exercised in a long time since I moved here.” She huffed, “I feel my body has started to feel not good.”
“Why didn't you come to my place? I think you can start today if you want.”
Y/N stopped her typing finger, head tilted to look at him. “Are you sure? Don't I have to register as a member first?”
“I know the owner, so it can be arranged.” He answered, “If you want, I'll leave in thirty minutes.”
“Didn't you just had run earlier?” Y/N closed her laptop down, interlocking her fingers.
“I have to keep my shape, baby. Running isn't enough.” He cackled, “Let's get ready.”
Y/N squealed after Harry left her. Since the early morning, she was looking for a suitable gym place for her. Yet, she was confused to choose since all of them had a good review. At least if she went to the same gym as Harry, she would have a companion in there.
She met Harry exactly thirty minutes later, her black Nike's sports bra with matching leggings. Her duffel bag clinging to her shoulder, hair tied in a ponytail. Harry stared dumbfounded at her, eyeing her up and down.
“You’re wearing that?” Harry asked, pointing at her normal outfit for a workout.
“I am.” She wagged her head, “And so are you.”
Y/N back pointed at his clothes. He just wore a plain black shirt and shorts, his red headband wrapped around his head. His duffel was sitting next to him. Harry cackled at her innocence, his girlfriend didn't catch what he meant.
“I mean, you don't wear any cover-up.”
She arched her eyebrows together, a little confused with his words. “Because we're going to the gym?”
Harry scratched his neck, a bit uncomfortable to talk about this. To be honest, he was also baffled why he felt like this. Imagining her body being an object to stare for people out there made him uncomfortable. Yes, Harry knew they were going to the gym and it was fair for her to dress like that. He just didn't like sharing what he had with others.
“I just a little uncomfortable thinking people will stare at your body.” He murmured nervously, “I don't like sharing what I have with people.”
Now, it was Y/N turn to look at him bewildered. She didn't mishear, did she?
“Oh, Harry.” She cooed, laughing a little. Her hand adjusted her duffel strap on her shoulder, “I bring a jacket. Don't worry. Need I to wear them now?”
“No, it's fine. I know I was being ridiculous.” He scratched his nose, “C'mon let's go.”
His gym was only twenty minutes drive. When Harry opened the gym door for her, not many people were exercising here. He was then greeted by an older man, they both looked close to the way talked to each other.
“Matt, this is Y/N, my girlfriend. Darling, this is my personal trainer, Matt.” Harry introduced them. Y/N held her hand out, being polite to Harry's friend. Working with him made her more often shaking hands at the first introduction. Before, she just waved or nodded her head.
“Hello. Nice to meet a girl that Harry always talked about.” Matt smiled, shaking her hand.
"Okay then. I will meet you later, Matt. I have to register Y/N first."
Matt nodded, “Sure. I'll wait for you at the back.”
After Matt left them alone, Harry escorted her to the desk, registered Y/N in membership and took her schedule together so her session would match with him. Y/N got her trainer right away, a bulky man with black jet hair. He looked intimidating but once he gave them a polite smile, Y/N believed he wasn't scary.
Aldo, his name, led her to her first session right away – leaving Harry who was staring at him with the slackened jaw. He was mad. Not with Y/N, but to Aldo who didn't speak any word dragging his girlfriend away.
Since it was her first time to back at the gym, Y/N did everything from the start. Aldo taught her with so much patience, yet he was a funny person. Her session was only about an hour and a half but delayed to two hours because they talked more than exercising.
He instantly became her friend. They were talked about each other life, with sometimes Aldo talked about Harry and his exercise.
"He's a little... peculiar." He said, looking at Y/N who was now wiping her sweat off her neck. "You see he's not bulky like any other Matt's clients. He can do more than any of professional athlete Matt trained if I could say that."
“Really?” Y/N looked interested, her eyes looked down at Aldo who was sat on an exercise ball.
“He always trains very hard, very determined. He did every gym equipment he could. Not surprising if he could pull more than 500 pounds on a rope only with his upper body.”
500 pounds?! Holy shit. Not surprised he was also strong in bed. - Her inner goddess patted her cheek
“He's very good at everything. That's why most male in here kinda hate him for that.” Aldo added, shrugging his shoulder. “He also does boxing.”
Yes, Aldo... He was indeed very good in bed too...
“I can also say he's stronger than any bodybuilders who trained here.”
“You're talking about bodybuilder, I can imagine if he's more muscular than he's now. But, I can't..” Y/N cringed, “He's in his perfect shape.”
“I agree. I can't imagine if he's bulkier than he's now.” Aldo bowed his head, “I believe he's boxing right now. Want me to escort you there? Your session is over for today.”
“Sure.”
Aldo walked Y/N to the private area in the gym. Mostly used for famous people to do their workout without being worried to get stalked or bothered by fans in any chance. From a distance, Y/N could spot Harry was standing on the ring. He wore headgear, his hands covered by boxing gloves, his upper body was naked and he had exchanged his shorts to red boxer shorts. He had complete boxing equipment all over his body. Matt was standing next to the ring, eyes stared at Harry and his opponent.
"That's Ben who's standing in front of him, his boxing trainer." Aldo said, "Both Matt and Ben work hard together to train him."
Y/N ignored Aldo's words, focusing only on Harry. His movements were fast enough to avoid Ben. His fist swung strongly as Ben ordered him to. Her eyes raked him up and down, his glistening sweat on his shoulder and torso did something to her. She was hot, and now seeing Harry like that, she felt even hotter. All she could do now was.. drooling over him.
She clenched her thighs together when Harry spun around, his back now facing her. The way his back muscles made an appearance, made her sucked her breath. She didn't know Aldo giggled at her.
“Yeah, I know your boyfriend is hot as fuck but don't ogle him like that.” He laughed before leaving her alone – letting her mind wandered about Harry's body.
“Darling? Hey!” Harry nudged her shoulder, landing a kiss on her cheek when Y/N completely ignored him. Her stares were blank, and that made Harry worry a little. He was aware of her arrival when he was in the ring. He felt weird when she didn't sit in the chair nearby until he was finished. He was up in there quite long.
“Are you okay? Don't make me worry.” He hummed, rubbed her shoulder. Y/N startled, blinking her eyes like she had just woken up.
“I'm sorry I was spacing out.” She sighed, “I'm okay.”
“How was your train? Is it good to be back at the gym?” he asked, guide her out from the open space. He didn't wear his boxing equipment anymore, yet still bare-chested.
“Mhm. It was good. My body feels lighter now.” She nodded.
“Yeah? Good then.” He paused, “How's Aldo? I saw him is too good to you.”
“Really?” Y/N laughed, knowing very well which way this question is lead to. “You don't have to be jealous, H. He's gay if you want to know.”
Harry stunned a little, didn't expect for that. He felt embarrassed that Y/N could guess what was thinking about her new personal trainer. And that was new for him to know Aldo wasn't into girls.
“He's nice. We got along very well. He said he's jealous at the moment he knew that I'm your girlfriend.” She giggled, “He thought you're gay since you had never been seen with a girl before.”
“So, he thought he had a chance with me?” he asked, “I didn't know that he's gay.”
“Exactly.”
“Not good for him since I'm into girls.” He rolled his eyes, “But I hope he finds his right man, then.”
"Speaking of that, I didn't know you're into boxing too?”
"Eh, I did it ever since I went to college in States. And I've become used to it." Harry shrugged, "Other than helping me in my self-defence, sometimes it can be an impingement."
"An impingement?" she didn't like how it sounds. But, she couldn't throw any judgement yet.
“Not in a bad way, of course.” He assured her. His smile wasn't really convincing but he tried to cover it up.
“Well then. Do you want to take a shower here or at your house?” Y/N inquired once they were in the reception room. Her body was sticky yet she doubted Harry would take shower here. It was a public shower and she knew Harry very well; he loved his privacy.
“Eh, just want to wash my face then we get back home. I don't like taking a shower here. Is it all right?”
Y/N nodded, “Fine. I can wait to take a shower but face wash can't. I'll join you.”
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As she said to Abbie before, Y/N would spend Christmas in Swansea while Harry back to Manchester. Both of them agreed to celebrate Christmas with their own family first and having quality time together later in New Year. She had been home for four days and would back to London on 28th, before heading to Italy.
It might sound odd they would be on a beachside on at the end of December while the coast was best visited on the summer. It was still better than having a holiday in a place covered in snow.
Y/N wake up from the noise downstairs. She looked at her phone, only showing 7.00 am on December 25th. It's Christmas morning.
She stretched her stiff muscles before shoving her blanket away and hurried to the bathroom with eyes half-closed. She cursed herself for splashing the water to her face, making her eyes wide open and flinched from the coldness. She peered out, looking at how the snow covered her yard made her think snow was falling heavily last night. Her window's glass was also dewy and very cold. Lucky for her, she didn't forget to turn on the heater last night. If else, she would wake up with frozen body or die because of hypothermia.
Her mother, father, and brother were gathering around in front of the blazing fireplace when she jogged downstairs. Their Christmas tree stood tall in the corner with some presents neatly arranged underneath. She was a bit feeling weird with her family's Christmas tree. If people out there use the usual green Christmas tree, her mother preferred to use a white one. Maybe it would look more beautiful considering their family room was dominated by dark colours. At least, it would make the tree stand out.
“Good morning, pet! Come take a seat. Do you wanna eat your breakfast or open the presents first?” Brenda tapped the empty seat next to her. “I made Casserole and French Toast.”
“I'll eat them later, we can open the presents first. But, Happy Christmas guys.”
“Happy Christmas!”
“All right then. I’ll open my presents first. ” Brenda took her present first, bring it to the couch. She was smile when she tore the paper – revealing a brand new robot vacuum.
“That's from me, mum.” Connor smile, “I think it would be helpful for you.”
“Thank you, darling.” She beamed. Then, her hands grabbed the red one which was from her husband, because it was written clearly with for my wife. She giggled when opened the box, finding some scented diffuser, a scented candle, and new bathrobe.
“And what did you get me, pet?” Brenda asked her daughter with a smile after thanked her husband. Y/N picked her present to her mother, “You have to find out.”
Y/N got her mother a leather wallet, some facial skincare, and Tesco vouchers. She also got a watch and sunglasses for her father, and an espresso coffee machine for Connor. Connor himself got her some scarves and bath bombs gift set, and baseball set for their father.
“All right, the last one.” Y/N said while picking the present from their parents. Both of them got her their family photograph, journal and some pens, passport cover, and two knit sweaters.
“That's better than me.” Connor whined, “I got mug set and Roastworks espresso!”
“Shush! That espresso suitable for the machine you've got.” Their father, Calvin, pushed his son shoulder playfully.
"Thank you, guys. I love it." Y/N smiled.
"Oh, I forget something! Let me get it for you." Brenda squeaked, rose from her spot. Her body bent down behind the tree, picking up the hidden present. Y/N didn't see that when she placed the presents last night. When her mother put that down?
“This is from Harry.” Brenda put it down her lap, “He asked me to not to tell you and give this in the end.”
“What is it?” Y/N lifted the box, shaking it gently. “When he gave this to you?”
“A courier delivered it a few days back. Harry called before and asked me to keep this secret.”
"So, this Harry is.. Harry as your boyfriend?" Connor questioned, looking at the package with a curious look. From the way the box looked, he could call it some expensive items.
“Of course! He's the sweetest young man I've ever met.” Brenda giggled, “He's even more handsome than your father when he was young.”
“You already met him, mum?” he demanded with wide eyes, then looking at Y/N. “And you haven't brought him to me?”
“Let me tell you something, Connor. When I came home from Bergen that day, your mum was smiling like crazy. Then I asked why. She only answered that she had met Y/N's boyfriend.” Calvin shook his head, “Well, I'm being more curious right now. My wife looks very awe-struck by him!”
"Okay guys, calm down. I'll bring him home if I have the chance. After all, our relationship had only been a few months.” Y/N sighed, “Can I open this box, please?”
“Go on, pet. Don't ruin the box, it looks nice.” Calvin smiled, pointing at the shimmering red box. Slowly, Y/N untied the golden ribbon. Her heart skipped a beat as her fingers began to lift the lid, excited to find out what inside. She picked the lid carefully, and place it next to her. Her eyes widened when her eyes found something in there.
“What is it?” her mother asked. Seeing her daughter's face, she didn't know if it's a good thing or not. Y/N took a poetry book and some scrunchies out from the box. Connor was laughing when he watched his sister stretching the scrunchies, “That's cute honestly.”
She ignored him, her hands turned to another box inside. It was a small package with a familiar colour of blue. She took the small box that written Tiffany & Co. in the centre and untied the white ribbon. She gasped quietly when she flicked the lid.
There was a diamond necklace resting in all its glory, the blinding white sparkle made her eyes could sweat in any moment. This was the most beautiful jewellery she ever saw. Her mother shot a quick look, before covering her mouth with her palm, “Oh my god, that's so beautiful!”
The necklace was around 17 inches long and engraved beautifully with little diamonds. Her hand lifted it – looking at the gem under the lights made it reflect elegant sparkles. She overwhelmed, couldn't believe Harry gave her such beautiful and breathtaking thing like this. She bet this beauty cost a fortune. It was Tiffany & Co. after all.
“Your boyfriend is fucking rich if he could afford that shit.” Connor mumbled, “Go call him. Say thanks and wish him a Happy Christmas.”
Y/N exhaled, nodding in agreement. She put the necklace back to its box, taking it with her. Before she went back to her room – to call Harry, of course, she grabbed her breakfast so she could eat them upstairs. She dialled Harry's number right after she got her bedroom, quickly put her AirPods on before he picked up her call.
“Hi, darling.”
"Harry.." She breathed, hearing his voice made her heart about to explode due to missing him so much. But, she must be patient, a few more days until they meet and spend time together.
“Happy Christmas, sweetheart. How's your Christmas, baby?” Y/N could tell Harry was smiling even she couldn't see him. His voice sounded happy.
“Happy Christmas, H. Mine is amazing, like usual. How about you?��
“Better, because I have a girlfriend to call for Christmas.” Harry sighed happily, "Thank you for the present, I love it."
“About that, thank you for the poetry book and those cute scrunchies. But the necklace? That's too much, H.”
“Oh, you didn't like it, did you?” his voice toned upset, Y/N quickly denied it. "No, I love it, baby. But I didn't think it was jewellery. I only got you a tie bar, some ties, belt, and a slipper for fuck sake.” She sighed, “I feel like my presents are worthless."
“It's okay, darling. You deserve it. And no, your present as valuable as mine. I love the fluffy slippers, that's very thoughtful of you."
“Mhm, I remember one day you said sometimes your feet hurt when you step on the cold floor too much.”
“Perks of being old, I guess.” He laughed. She could hear a shuffling sound behind him and Anne's voice in the background.
“All right, I have to hang up. Tell your mum and Clementia I wish them a Happy Christmas. And, thank you very much for the present.”
“Okay, send my hello to your family as well. Bye, darling.”
“Bye, H.” Y/N hung up the call with a smile on her lips. She opened the box again, admiring the diamond twinkle while scooping her breakfast.
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Gatwick Airport this afternoon more crowded than usually do. Due to holiday season, every traveller was in and out to spend their time wherever they heart desire. Their flight would board two hours from now, and Y/N just arrived with her small backpack and big suitcase. She and Harry would stay at a private villa in Sorrento, their flight would take them to Naples first before taking a car ride to where they stay. Again, she had no idea why Harry chose Italy for their seven days holiday. But to be honest, Sorrento was one of her bucket lists – well she believed Harry didn't know about it. She had never told him about that after all.
The necklace rested around her neck and she proudly wore it. Not only wanted to make Harry feel appreciated for his present, but her eyes also couldn't take her eyes off from the necklace. It was too pretty to ignore.
Y/N waited in terminal entrance since Harry was the one who holding their ticket, she couldn't check themselves in yet.
From afar, she spotted Harry was walking casually with a holdall clung in his shoulder while the other hand pulled a medium-sized suitcase. He wore a plain black shirt, along with a white line printed loose trousers. For a moment Y/N didn't recognise him when he came over, his stubble was gone. He looked younger.
“Hi, darling. Waiting too long?” he smiled before leaned in, gave a quick peck on her lips. Y/N shook her head, “No, I arrived like.. ten minutes ago.”
“C'mon, let get us check-in.” He said and walked her to the check-in counter. The staff welcomed them kindly. When she asked for their tickets, Harry asked Y/N to help get his phone in his pocket and open the airline's application. She gave her his phone along with their passports.
After checking their tickets, the staff asked them again for their baggage and prohibited items if there was one.
"All right, Mr Styles and Ms Y/L/N. This is your passports and boarding passes. Your seats are 1A and 1C. Your gate is A12, and the gate will close at 12.10. You can enjoy our lounge while you waiting for boarding time. Thank you and enjoy your flight." She smiled before gave the pass to them.
“I didn't know we'll flying Business today.” Y/N hummed, her left hand locked to Harry's while the right one holding the pass, looking at it with sometimes her eyes looking for where the lounge was.
Harry shrugged, his thumb rubbing hers. “If I tell you, you would try to prevent me booked the Business class.”
“The necklace looks good on you.” He added, looking down at her.
“Thank you. It's really beautiful.”
“Not as beautiful as you.” He winked.
After his eyes found the lounge, Harry pulled her hands in the right direction, where the lounge at. He kind of forgot where it was since he usually flying private with, of course, his private jet. This time, he didn't use his jet because he would know her reaction if she found out.
The lounge wasn't too full of travellers, so they could enjoy a little time more before boarding to the plane. While Harry was working with his iPad, Y/N continued reading the poetry book given from him. Being the sweetheart he was, Harry took some complimentary snacks and drinks for her. Y/N gave him quick thanks and kiss on his cheek, yet still occupied with the book.
“Is the book that good? Since you ignore my presence.” He asked, didn't mean to insult her, just teasing his girlfriend because she was busy reading. She didn't realise they would be boarding soon.
"No.. no, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ignore you." She answered, closing her book and grabbed his face with both her hands, giving him a quick kiss on the corner of his lips. "But yeah, this is good. How could you know such a good book?"
“I have a copy in the office. I like this book so, I thought you would like it too.” Harry patted her hands which still holding his face, “Let's go, boarding gate will open in five minutes.”
"I forget to compliments your clean face, when did you shave?" Y/N asked while walking hand in hand with Harry. Both of them didn't need to hurry since they would have priority gate.
“On Christmas Eve. Mum said it tickles her every time I leaned back to kiss her cheek.” He lowly said, “Is it look good? Which one do you prefer? Beard or clean?”
“Stubble is okay, just don't let it cover your entire face.” She laughed, “But a little hair on there does a bit favour on me."
Harry raised an eyebrow, looking at her with a teasing look. He knew what she meant, “Especially if it could tickle your thighs, yeah?”
“Harry..” Y/N rolled her eyes, shaking her head.
When they arrived at the boarding gate, they were welcomed by the staff and used the priority lane to get to the plane without having to queue.
The flight took two hours and a half in the air before landing at Naples airport. Most of the time Y/N spent with sleeping due to Harry loved to stroking her hair, made her feel sleepy. It was like his hands had magic to make her fall asleep right away. He sometimes woke her up if the flight attendant came to serve their meals.
They were greeted by a butler service when both of them arrived the arrival hall, the driver was holding a sign with Harry's name written on there. Harry bid him hello and spoke to him in Italian, which Y/N didn't understand.
Along the ride, Y/N mostly look out to the view from her window. Her eyes looked at the beautiful Sorrento night light, the tourists were out enjoying the festive. Her eyes lighted up when the car passed by a massive Christmas tree in a roundabout, before moving to a secluded area.
The car stopped in front of a beautiful villa, Y/N climbed out first and look at her surrounding. She could hear the waves from afar as the strong winds hit her body. She didn't realise that her and Harry's luggage were at the door already, the car that drove them had disappeared. Guess she was enjoying the bliss too much.
"Welcome to our villa for the next seven days." Harry said, opening the door. He took his luggage while Y/N took hers. Their villa was huge, modern yet still friendly with a little Italian traditionalism. The interior was dominated by white, but the other two bedrooms had the calming blue colour painted across the wall. They put their belongings on the master bedroom that have access to the terrace overlooking the sea. The terrace was long wide from side to side the villa. Grey chairs sprawled every here and there. Small stairs were leading to the small yard with sunbathing chairs on the edge to the infinity pool. On the very right side, there was a small private garden with a wooden fence, a perfect place to looking at the ocean. Next to them were the stone steps leading to the beach.
Back inside, she wandered around the spacious kitchen and dining room. This villa had at least four bedrooms and two living rooms. She was sure this place could accommodate at least ten people.
“This is so nice, Harry. I can't wait for morning come so I can see this place better, I bet the daylight view would be amazing.” Y/N beamed, plopping her bum down the couch.
"I'm glad you love it, darling." He joined next to her, bringing her closer so he could kiss her. "The food will come in about half an hour, I ordered from a restaurant not far from here. I think you're tired so it's better we're not coming out tonight."
Y/N lifted her head, looking at him in such awe. "Thank you for all of this." She pulled his face closer, just for giving him a big kiss.
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The very first days in Sorrento, they were spending by walking along the beach – splashing the water here and there even though the temperature was cold, tasting local foods in a small restaurant that had an incredible view to the sea where it hung on the cliffs. Harry even rented a convertible car for their transportation during the holiday. One of her favourites was when they visit the Piazza Tasso, the streets were lit with fairy lights and towering evergreens were decorated in the centre. Good things they came here in winter, Sorrento in December was exceptional.
Apart from the touristy activities they did, they also spent the day with sex. A lot of sex.
She could even forget how many rounds to go in a day... Her inner goddess gagged.
Harry was nowhere when Y/N walked into the villa for groceries shopping, they decided to have a barbecue for New Year tonight.
It was just three in the afternoon, where he could be?
Yet, she could hear the sound of water waves coming from the back of their villa. She found Harry was swimming, didn't aware she was watching. She had no idea why Harry swam in such cold weather outside.
"Oh, hey baby." Harry smiled, realising his girlfriend already back – watching him from the terrace chair. He stood up with his back to the sea. His hair was wet, the water droplet slid from his face to his neck, then to the chest. The sight made Y/N gulped, he was looking so freaking attractive.
“Are you not cold? The wind is pretty strong.” She asked.
“The pool has a heater, luckily. So, now I feel cold from head to chest, and the rest down I feel warm.”
Y/N didn't pay attention to what he said, her hearing was fazed while she eyed up and down Harry's bare chest. How wet his shoulder until chest, to how the water swallowed down the rest of his body. He might feel warm, but the way his lips trembled slightly indicate how cold the wind hit his body.
She woke up from her daydream when Harry asked her to join him in the pool. She felt unsure at the beginning, but screw it – she couldn't resist him any longer. Harry shook his head when his girlfriend walked inside to change, he didn't expect her to bring a swimsuit. She jumped into the pool with only bra and underwear, it was more than enough.
Harry returned to dive to the bottom of the pool, enjoying the warmth of the water. He was good at holding his breath, he didn't need to go the surface once in a while to inhale. But every time his hand was crawling forward, something bothered him. The more he tried to ignore it, the sound became clearer in his ears.
A sound.
A voice.
How could he hear a voice underwater?
“I've let you too long”
“I'm stronger than you, Harry.”
“You're too weak.”
“Pathetic..”
He was gasping for breath when his head out to the surface. He rubbed his wet face, the voice was too annoying to ignore.
That voice belongs to Marcel.
No, Harry couldn't let him ruin his holiday. Squinting his eyes, Harry shook his head. He should remove the voice from his head, immediately.
Harry snapped his head up when hearing footsteps from the inside, only for seeing Y/N walked to him in her neon lime bikini. He watched her slowly dip her body down the water. Her eyebrows furrowed, but once the water swallowed her body up to her collarbone, he could see a look of relief drawn on her face.
“I see you've came prepared.” He smirked, a smug grin plastered on his face while his girlfriend stepping slowly to him. Y/N ignored his statement, once she was in front of him, she brought her hands around his neck.
“I guess it was tucked below my folded underwears. So, it's luck for you.” She hummed, biting her lips. Her full eyes looked at him like he was the only addiction in the world. Her gaze was so adoring, innocent, yet seductive.
Harry stunned, this girl was definitely teasing him. He better played along.
“That's a shame.” He frowned, his hands stroking her thighs to made them wrap around his waist. “If you didn't bring any, you could wear those sexy bras and knickers. Or.. naked is more exciting you know?”
“Is that a challenge?” she pouted her lips, her index finger delicately stroking his swallows' tattoos. She liked this, she was glad the way Harry played along.
“Anything with you is a challenge, sweetheart.”
Y/N gasped of Harry sudden move, he dragged them underwater in one pull. She couldn't complain since Harry was already kissing her, his hands holding her backs – carried her like a koala. Her hands held his face, legs still wrapped around his waist. This was a new excitement for her. Both of their hair was floating before slowly sinking around them. They broke the kiss as they returned the surface, Y/N coughed badly since she didn't have time to take a breath, “As much as I like that but please let me take a breath first.”
“I'm sorry darling. But your face was funny!” he laughed, “Do I have to give you artificial respiration?”
She rolled her eyes, splashing water to him before swimming to the edge. Her eyes looked at the orange sky, the sun over there would set soon. The ocean breeze kissed her cheeks and nose, causing her eyes to flutter shut as she inhaled deeply.
"Isn't it so beautiful?" Harry heard her murmur, he was leaning beside her. Instead of answering his girlfriend, he was too drowning in her beauty. Her face bright radiant from the sunset sky, natural on its beauty. His heart was beating so fast when he saw her smile.
Then his minds rolling around to the when he smiled and grateful to whatever she did to him, how his palms being sweaty when he was nervous around her, how she behaved around him, how she kept the conversation between them even them both was busy, how his mother and sister adored her since the first time they met, how protective he was with her, how jealous he was when his client trying to make a move to her. Most importantly, how she treat him as normal as possible.
He did failure on the previous relationships. His ex always treated him like a walking trophy. A trophy that produced attention and money. Maybe it was his fault, he took a risk of dating models or people from the entertainment industries. His life at that time couldn't be separated from the spotlight and media.
But, would Y/N still act like this when he's honest about the darkness in his life? Which he believed would still haunt him until he dies?
“Harry, darling?” she kissed his jaw, made him wake up from his reverie. Harry smiled, kissing her nose in return. “Yes, baby?”
“You were spacing out.” Y/N muttered, “Don't just standstill. The wind getting cold.”
Y/N swam away from him. Harry shook his head, trying to shove away that awful feeling. Now, seeing she swam was more fun for him. He noticed how the bikini fit her body so well, the colour really gave her compliment. He stared at her for a good thirty minutes; a worthy thirty minutes to him.
“Why you don't swim?” she asked, half shouting from the edge.
“I already spent an hour swimming when you were out.”
She shrugged, before returning to swim. The bikini was worth a shoot for this situation, the bliss was too good to miss. She spent another fifteen minutes before swimming back to Harry. The sun stayed just a little the end of the horizon, a sign it would set perfectly just a little more.
“Thank you so much for taking me here, Harry.” She smiled softly. Both of them leaned to the edge side to side, looking at the endless ocean in front of them.
"I bring you here because I remember that day you told Clementia you wanted to visit Italia." Harry said. Also, he had a sex dream about fucking her in here – he thought in mind.
He was surprised when she jumped into him. Good for her that he instantly hold her. If not, she would fall into the water. Harry giggled when Y/N peppering wet kisses all over his face while murmuring thank you over and over again.
“I'm glad to see you happy.” It was all he said before taking her in kisses. Her hands cupped his jaw while his hands wrapped around her back. The kiss was soft, gentle, a delicate one. The sun setting beautifully behind them with the faint sound of the waves made the situation sweeter than ever. Their tongue twisted each other, the sound of their lips clashing together was all they heard. The air got colder yet the kiss getting heated when Harry tugged her lower lips – licking them sensually. The dark sky began to rise as Y/N let out a moan. Harry's lips began to kiss her earlobe, licking them before suck it gently. Y/N hands wandered his chest while he was kissing her jaw, down to her throat. She gasped as her boyfriend suck on her collarbone, leaving some red marks there, before moving to her neck and her shoulder.
“Harry..” Y/N whined.
Harry could feel his hard erection from the way his swimming trunks suffocating him. He ran his finger to her cleavage, "Yes baby?"
“Harry..” Y/N choked as Harry dragging his finger down her stomach to her navel, she gasped as she felt Harry's finger snuck between her thighs for sneaking up underneath her bottom; teasing her core. She dropped her head to his shoulder, her breath panting as he rolled up and down his finger there.
“Harry, not in the pool please.” She begged, but Harry didn't want to hear that as he slowly pushing his index finger into her core. She cried, fingers digging into his shoulder.
“Too late..” he hummed, “But, your order always my priority sweetheart.”
Harry carried her to the edge, still with his index into her. He helped her out of the pool after he slid out his finger before he got out by himself. He immediately lay her down to the sunbathing chair. Y/N giggled when Harry kissed her hard, his hands wildly reach out to her back to untied her bikini strap, but her hands prevented him.
“I can't get naked here, H. What if people see it?” she asked in worry. He kissed her lips then, “Don't worry. This is a private area, the distance between the villa is quite far. And the stone steps have a small gate, remember? They won't go break through."
“Okay.” She answered his questioning look; asking for her permission. Harry loosened the strap one by one before throwing them away. He kissed her breast, sucking her left nipple while his hand palming the right. She grasped his hair while Harry licking her hard nipple, moaning in pleasure when Harry gave them a gentle massage.
“Baby, I'm not a colouring book!” Y/N giggled when Harry sucking her breast, leaving red swollen marks almost all around her chest. He lifted his head, looking at her. “Yeah? But your body is like a white canvas that needs beautiful art paintings here.”
Harry brought his lips back to her, only for savouring the way her sweet and plump lips against him. His palm propped her neck, while his other hand sneaking down her body. Silently sliding under her bottom, flicked his finger to her clit before rolling in. Y/N gasped in his mouth, hands wandering around his back.
"Oh my god... Oh!" she cried, feeling his finger rocking in and out in speed. Y/N arched her back when Harry moved his lips to assault his nipples, she was sure her entire chest was red and start to leave bruises from how hard Harry sucked them.
She whined in protest when Harry slid out his finger, but then she trembled from the cold wind hit her lower part. She didn't realise when Harry took off her bikini bottom, she was too carried away by her lust. Y/N tilted her head as Harry disappeared between her legs, her thighs instantly clenched his head from the way Harry giving her core a few kitten licks. She flinched as Harry spread her legs open and threw them to his shoulder, so he could get better access to her.
“So wet already?” he hummed, collecting her wetness in his finger and gave it a taste, “Sweet like usual.”
Harry averted his gaze to find Y/N looking at him with tender eyes, glowing all over with adoration smile. She nodded at him, permitting to continue. Y/N stroked her fingers to his soft roots, breathing heavily while Harry tasting her intimate part. She shut her eyes closed, arching her back the way her core felt Harry's warm tongue dancing around them.
“Please, Harry.”
Obeyed her order, Harry slid his two fingers into her. His mouth sucked her pubis as his fingers pounding into her hard, only to heard loud moan from his lovely girlfriend. Sometimes, he licked her clit here and there to pleasure her, his priority now was to make sure her satisfaction fulfilled enough.
“Harry.. Harry, oh my.. oh my.” She panted, before letting out an animal moan. “Oh, Harry! Oh.. Oh!”
Her entire body was shaking terribly, her legs became numb. She squinted her eyes from how hard Harry rocking her in and out. She was so close...
“I'm close baby, please... Oh!”
“Cum for me baby, cum on me. Ride my tongue.” Harry swapped his fingers to his tongue quickly, adding more pressure in Y/N stomach. She exhaled loudly, rolling her eyes. Her back arching when she came on his tongue, her wetness spurting all over his mouth until his face. Y/N looked down, Harry seemed very satisfied – while collecting her wetness on him and suck them from his fingers. She wanted to open her mouth, but her eyes caught his bulge formed underneath his trunks.
“Now, you sit here.” She got up, pressing Harry's shoulder down so he could sit down, ignoring her limp legs.
“What are you doing, baby?” he asked curiously, then his eyes got wide when she pulled down his trunks. His erect length sprung up instantly; looking hard and in anger. Y/N bent down, taking it with both hands, pumping him slowly.
“Fuck, you don't need to do that. We have to get ready for barbecue, love.” He sighed, tilting his head. Y/N shrugged, hands still pumping his pride. “I know, but I saw your friend here need be taken care of.”
Harry sighed, squinting his eyes feeling how good her hands on him. He choked when Y/N flicked his heavy balls, and peppering kisses from the tip until his base – licking them back from base to tip.
“Oh fuck.” He moaned when she slid in his length to her mouth slowly. His length barely made it all the way her mouth, the rest of it covered by her palms. She bobbed her head up and down, rolling her tongue seductively.
His eyes shut close, mouth open gasping for oxygen. He pressed her head further down until his length hit the wall of her throat, guide Y/N to faster.
“Oh, darling. Yes, fuck it.” He cried every time his tip touching the end of her throat, her hands magically cup his balls – pumping them slowly. Harry could feel he was close, his loaded gonna exploded. But he didn't know if she wanted him to cum inside of her or not.
Before he got the chance to lift her head – to ask her, he shot his cum into her mouth. He exhaled in relief, his eyes squinting before made contact with her – watching her as she swallowed down his cum with eyes looking back directly to him. Harry noticed the rest of his cum oozing out through the corner of her mouth.
His release was too much for her mouth to hold.
Once Y/N released his length, Harry grabbed her head to kiss her mouth. His lips licking his oozing cum, then gently lay her back down the chair. Shielding her from the curious stars in the night sky looking at them.
.
.
.
.
Harry went out to look for wine for them. He took a walk because people were pouring into the streets, ready to welcome the New Year in a few hours. He didn't want to take a risk driving car, it would waste his time. Y/N fell asleep as soon as Harry brought her to their bedroom, she was exhausted after their lustful activities. While she was sleeping, he took the chance to buy the drink since she forgot.
Luckily, a few locals told him there was a wine shop not far from the villa, so he didn't need to looking around. When he was walking down a cobblestone street, he passed a small florist. Harry's mind drove to Y/N back at their villa and decided to bring her some flowers. He thanked the old lady after she gave him his bouquet choice.
After he got two bottles of wine and a flower bouquet in his hands, he walked back to the villa. He suddenly realised chose the wrong route because there was no lighting on this street, and it was relatively quiet. He tried to relax, but at the end of the alley, he could see two people standing – looking at him. He turned around, taking another route. His anxiety increased when he heard footsteps followed him behind.
Hell, it was not a good sign.
Harry tried to walk faster, but they were able to catch up with him. He froze when someone grabbed his shoulder from behind, forced him to turn around.
“May I help you?” he asked calmly, trying not to make them angry.
“What have you got on yourself?” one of them spoke in broken English, Harry showed them the bouquet and wine.
“It's not what I mean.” He groaned, his breath was very smelly from alcohol. “Where is your wallet? You must be got a wallet on you.”
He stretched his hand, asking for Harry's wallet. Harry hesitantly put the bouquet and bottles on the side of the alley, before taking out his wallet from the pocket. The unknown man snatched it away. Harry prayed that they would leave soon, but it seemed his wallet not enough for them. He got irritated when they also ask for his phone.
“I gave you my wallet already, isn't that enough?”
“Do you want to save yourself or keep your phone?” The man smirked before took out a pocket knife from behind his jacket. Harry gulped, his mind battling with himself which one is better. His phone kept a lot of his work and some secrets, but he couldn't just give up his life. He couldn't scream for help because it was only three of them. He gripped his phone tightly, he couldn't give up on them, they didn't have a right.
“Are you fucking deaf?! Give me my phone you fucking bastard.”
Before they got a chance to shove him, Harry step back. His hand kept his phone behind his back. He shook his head, “You know what? Sometimes I like challenges.” His eyes grew darker, looking at them in disgust.
“You speak too much.”
The man lunged forward to Harry, while his friend just stared at them. Harry smirked, instead of dodging him, Harry went forward – as fast as lightning grabbed the hand that held the knife, twisted it until a heartbreaking cracked bone echoing in the air. Harry snatched the knife, throwing it next to the bouquet. While the robber was crying in pain, the friend ran to him.
“Wrong move.” He mumbled, punching the man in the stomach until he fell. Harry gave him a few good kicks in his arms. He picked the knife and stabbed the second man before he could get hurt. He twisted the knife before pulling it out and slit the first man's throat.
Harry smiled, watching their filthy blood pouring out their wound. Taking a step closer, he watched their face carefully. “You have to be smart at finding prey before you attack them.”
He threw the bloody knife as far as he could before picking up his wallet, phone, the bottles, and bouquet. Before he walked away, he glanced at them once again from his shoulder – making sure those assholes was dying until the death took their life away.
When Harry got back, he could smell the barbecue was on from behind. The delicious smell of seafood, sausage, corn, and vegetables made his stomach rumble. He put his wallet and phone on the counter, before walking to the outdoor area – where they would celebrate the new year. Y/N was standing in front of the grills, sometimes she wiped her sweat on her forehead due to heat of the burning flames.
“I got the wine!” Harry yelled, making her jump. “Jesus, Harry! You scared me.”
“Sorry, baby.” He kissed her cheek, “I got you flowers too.”
“What occasion?” she smiled.
“I just want to buy you them.” He shrugged, putting the wine on the table. “Can I help you with something?”
“Err, can you help me set the table? I'm almost done here. One hour to go.” Y/N said excitedly, looking at the clock.
After helping Y/N set the table, both of them began to put down the plates, cutlery, the foods, and the whine on the table facing the ocean. They could hear the crowd from the beach, lots of people were waiting to see the fireworks. Harry complimented on how good Y/N at making barbecue, he rambled of he could keep eating because of it.
“Oh god, I'm full.” Harry sighed, leaning back to the chair. Seeing how much he ate, making him shake his head. They were silent for a while, enjoying the bliss and the beauty of the night.
Fifteen minutes to 2020.
"Thank you for what have you done for me in this past year, Harry. Words can't describe how grateful I am." Y/N said while sipping her wine. "I owe you a lot."
Harry took her body so she could sit on his lap, he looked at her with full adoration. His fingers brushing her baby hair away, “Thank you for making me a better man, Y/N. Thank you for giving me the chance, I know being my girlfriend is not easy. You're constantly dealing with my irrational anger. You never got angry every time I was forced to cancel our date. You never got angry if works standing between us. I'm grateful God brought you to me.”
His whisper made Y/N feel touched, hearing how genuine he was, made her tears ready to burst. Her lips quivered, she quickly snuggled into his neck. Harry was confused by her, he just keeps rubbing her back.
“What's wrong, baby? Did I say something wrong?” Harry cooed softly. He felt Y/N shook her head, before looking at him.
“No, I'm just happy.”
“Okay then. Now we're counting down.” He hummed, kissing her temple. The countdown started, they didn't need to look at the clock since the screams of people on the beach were heard enough by them.
10.. 9.. 8
“I can't wait what 2020 may hold for us. I just want us to keep like this. Be happy with each other.”
“Me too, H.”
7.. 6.. 5
“Hope everything gets better, you know?”
“Everything will get better, darling.”
4.. 3.. 2.. 1..
“Happy new year, baby”
“Happy new year, sweetheart.”
Their lips crushed each other as the fireworks shooting into the sky, made the darkness look beautiful because of the sparkling colour. Their kiss got deeper as fireworks clashed. Harry hungrily biting her lower lips, sliding his tongue in and twisting their tongue. His hands stayed on her waist. Y/N let out a soft moan when Harry slowly grinding on her, her fingers stroke his roots softly. The only sound they heard now was the colliding of their lips. Harry sucked her mouth, making a pop sound before detaching his lips. He beamed at how swollen her lips were.
Both of them looking at each other with sincerity and utter admiration, then Y/N leaned on Harry's chest, watching the fireworks dancing in the sky. His hands rubbed her body up and down, with his chin sat on top of her head.
Relaxing for another thirty minutes, they cleaned up the table. Ready to go to bed. Y/N saw the bouquet laid down the table. She grinned, that must be her flowers. She took the bundle, smelling the fresh aroma. She didn't even think Harry was such a romantic for buying her flowers. But, her smile faltered when her eyes spot the red dot on the white petals.
No, it wasn't just a dot, there were splotch red marks on the other petals. Her fingers caressing the red marks, it was dry, yet still felt wet on her finger. She scrunched her nose, seeing the other splotches on the stalk. Her brain told her it was blood, but what blood?
Whose blood?
She gripped the bouquet tightly against her chest, wanting to ask Harry. Seeing her boyfriend wallet being left unaccompanied next to the bouquet, she decided to bring it with her. But, her hands felt sticky – like there was liquid spilling on his wallet. Her eyes widened in fear, noticing some blood smeared on her palm. Her hand didn't hurt, she had no wound. Where did the blood come?
Something knocked her brain. She looked at Harry's wallet and the bouquet in turn.
She had to ask Harry now.
“Harry?” she called him, sighing in relief when she saw Harry was sitting on their bed.
“Mhmm?” he smiled, “Oh, you've got the flowers.”
“It's beautiful, thank you.” Y/N uttered quietly, walking closer to him. “I want to ask you something.”
“Okay?”
She felt a lump in her throat when she wanted to speak, the wallet and bouquet in her hands became heavy so suddenly. But, she had to do this.
“Are you in pain? Did you get hurt when you were out earlier?”
Harry furrowed his eyebrow, “No. Why do you ask?”
“My bouquet and your wallet.. there was blood on them.” Y/N admitted, showing him what did she mean. Y/N was a little fidgety when she saw a sudden shift in Harry's expression. He looked surprised, like a deer in the spotlight, a bit jittery. There was a huge silent before Harry opened his mouth, justify her words. “Yes, it was blood.”
“Whose blood? I didn't see any wound in your body?”
Harry looked at her, didn't know how to tell her. She looked at him with soft eyes, worried look. Her eyes never gave him some easy judgment to him. He must be honest with her, sooner or later, he couldn't keep hiding his lies.
“Not my blood, it was.. someone blood.”
"Oh, okay... it's a relief that wasn't your blood." Y/N mumbled softly, her eyes widened suddenly as aware of his last sentence. "Hold on, it was someone? Harry?"
She sat next to him, watching her boyfriend in a suspicious look. “What do you mean?”
Harry took a long breath, his eyes were scared to look at hers. He had to be honest now, or he would regret it in his entire life.
But, would he be ready for her reaction?
Was he ready if Y/N will leave him after this?
Why did this have to be happening at a time like this?
.
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Please excuse some errors.
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Puppy Eyes Chapter 1
Read the Prologue here.
Also on AO3 and Fanfiction.net.
Shout-out to my wonderful beta @hkvoyage: thank you for following me on this new and crazy adventure! I’m so grateful for your feedback and insights ♥
Chapter 1: A New Client
Though Kurt hadn’t gotten into NYADA, he was pretty pleased with his life right now. He’d scored an internship at Vogue, and he’d gotten into Parsons, where he was studying fashion design. He’d quit working at the Starlight Diner to become a dog walker, which paid a lot more, counted as exercise and could be combined perfectly with his studies.
The only downside was that his days started really early. He had to pick up his first doggy client at 5.30 a.m., and he’d never been a morning person. Still, he was used to Rachel’s early morning hours by now. Like clockwork, she woke him up at five with her vocal exercises . At first, he’d wanted to strangle her, but now her fanatic regime came in handy to get him up and running at such an early hour.
He’d discovered dog walking when Neil, his partner for a design project, had come down with the flu, and had moaned on the phone that he was letting everyone down.
“Don’t worry about me,” Kurt had answered. “I’ll copy my class notes for you and I’ll work on the design by myself for now, and then we can develop it further when you’re feeling better.“
“You’re an angel,” Neil had sighed. “Now I only wish all the dogs I’m supposed to be walking today could walk themselves for a change. I really can’t get up, my legs feel like cooked noodles.”
“Wow. How many dogs do you have?”
Neil had chuckled and then coughed his head off. “They’re not my dogs, I’m just walking them. It’s how I make the rent. Dog owners here in NYC don’t want to take their darlings to the park three times a day. And God forbid they’d have to clean up after their precious Fifi! So they hire me for that. It pays really well.”
Kurt had hummed in understanding. “Hey, do you want me to walk your doggy clients for now? I’m good with dogs, I promise.”
Neil had thanked him again and given him the number of the dog walker agency, and after taking over Neil’s duties for a week to everyone’s satisfaction, Kurt had been given his own clients.
Today, a new one had been added to the roster.
“Just for a week,” Sheila had said. “His name’s Devon, and he’s a Portuguese water dog. You’re to pick him up at six in the morning, then at twelve, and then at six again. Will that work for you? The owner paid for one-hour walks, and asked to not just walk with the dog but also run and play fetch with him. Apparently, he’s very energetic, and if he doesn’t get enough exercise, he chews up everything in the apartment.”
Kurt had jotted the details down in his planner app, rejoicing that it was three times in one day, as well as an early bird assignment. Any walks before 8 a.m. were paid double, and before 6 a.m. even triple, so he was always glad to get those.
Kurt got up reluctantly as soon as Rachel’s voice broke through his dreams. He filled a thermos with coffee, grabbed his packed breakfast and lunch from the fridge and put on his dog-walking outfit: old jeans, a warm flannel shirt and a navy parka that repelled not only water but doggy paw prints as well.
His high school self would have been appalled at his outfit choices, but Kurt had learned that practicality trumped fashion-forwardness when dealing with dogs and dirty subway trains. Anyway, at Parsons, the bar was raised so impossibly high that people looked down on him even when he wore his most fashionable outfits. A vintage McQueen shirt paired with a Marc Jacobs vest and matching pants from last season did not impress anyone. Nor did his collection of scarves and brooches. Why bother, then? The few friends he had dressed casually, like he did. And in a few years, he’d be a designer in his own right. He could go back to dressing fabulously then.
Kurt took the subway train to Lower Manhattan, eating his breakfast on the way. His first assignment was a dog that had to be walked alone. Precious was docile and sweet, but did not react well to other dogs or other people, so her walks were kept short and were scheduled early in the morning and late at night, when the streets and the park were deserted.
After bringing Precious back, he hopped on the train to the Upper East Side, where he picked up Titus, and after him Snowball and Summer.
When he arrived at the new address, the man who opened the door blinked in sleepy confusion at Kurt and the three dogs he had with him, and let out a loud sneeze when Summer started to scratch behind her ear.
Kurt introduced himself and announced that he was there to take Devon for his walk.
The man sneezed again, rubbed his eyes, blew his nose, and then called over his shoulder, “Sweetcheeks, did you order a dog walker?”
“Shoot, I forgot about that,” was the answer, and a minute later, another guy hurried towards them with a black dog following him, and then overtaking him to race to Kurt and the other dogs. He came to a stop right in front of Kurt, sniffing at him and then sitting on his haunches and looking up at Kurt with a serious expression.
Kurt grinned at the dog. “I take it you are Devon, then? You ready to go out, champ? I’ll have to put you on a leash, I’m afraid. You want to smell my fingers first before I touch you?”
Kurt offered his hand for Devon to sniff, and then turned it over to softly rub the dog’s cheek. “What do you say? Ready to come with me on an adventure?”
Devon wuffed softly, and wagged his tail.
“I’ll take that as a yes!”
Kurt got another leash out of his backpack and quickly attached it to Devon’s collar. “Well, I’ll be back in about an hour, then. Bye!”
“Wait!” said the second guy. “Here’s the spare key. Could you, maybe, let Devon back in after your walk without ringing the bell so we can sleep some more? You’ll also need the key at noon. We’ll be out.”
Kurt took the key and rummaged in his backpack for a permanent marker to write ‘Devon’ on it. Once it was on his key ring, he said “Bye!” again, and took the four dogs out of the building and two blocks away to Central Park.
Snowball, as usual, strained at his leash in his eagerness to get there, his enthusiasm so contagious that even Titus sped up. Soon, Kurt was running to keep up, and it made him chuckle. Devon, the new addition to their party, seemed to fit in well with the group, and was clearly well-trained. When Kurt commanded his charges to stop and wait to cross the street until the walk signal went on, Devon promptly sat down and waited, while the others needed to be told firmly to stop and sit at least twice more before they obeyed.
In the park, Kurt took their leashes off and let them run free for a bit, while he looked for a nice stick to play fetch with. He had a few tennis balls in his backpack, as well as a Frisbee, but he didn’t know what Devon would prefer.
When he’d found a stick that would do, he let out a loud whistle to call the dogs to him. They bounded up to him with their tails wagging madly.
“Wanna play fetch? You wanna?”
Their wriggling butts showed quite clearly that yes, they wanted to play. Kurt threw two of the tennis balls in quick succession, and Snowball chased after them, barking, followed by the others. Snowball found one of the balls and brought it back to Kurt, leaving the others to squabble over the second tennis ball. Summer won that battle, and triumphantly presented her prize to Kurt, who rewarded both Snowball and Summer with an ear-rub and a dog treat.
Devon eyed the stick at Kurt’s feet and tugged at it with his teeth, growling.
Kurt laughed. “You want to catch that? All right then, let go and I’ll throw it!”
Kurt threw the stick, and after it both tennis balls. This time, Devon beat the others and came back with the stick, which he dropped in front of Kurt’s feet. Kurt praised him, scratching gently behind his ears and offering him a treat, doing the same to the others when they brought back the tennis balls. Titus came behind, sulking. He was the slowest of Kurt’s morning clients, and rarely joined in the fun and games, preferring to stick to Kurt instead to get petted, because he was always outrun anyway.
“Aww, Titus, it’s not fair that your legs are so much shorter than theirs, is it? Come here, boy.”
Kurt lavished attention on Titus, too, and then let the Frisbee soar. Immediately, Devon jumped after it, his body bent in a graceful arc and going higher than Kurt would have believed possible. The Portie caught the Frisbee mid-air, and proudly presented it to Kurt.
After some more throwing and fetching, Kurt put the dogs’ leashes on again and walked further into the park. “Well, lady and gents, you know the drill. Make sure you pee and poo before I take you back home.”
A vigorous walk later, all the dogs’ business done, scooped up and discarded, Kurt dropped them off at their respective owners, and went to pick up the next lot for their walk.
By the time he arrived at school, he was hungry again, so as soon as he’d slipped into one of the back rows of the auditorium for his History of Fashion lecture, he grabbed a banana and a granola bar from his backpack and devoured them in mere seconds.
His phone pinged with a reminder that he had a second class that day. For the spring semester, he’d enrolled in an extra class, paid for by Vogue, no less. Isabelle had entrusted the accessory section of the Vogue website to him, and now he needed to brush up on his graphic design skills to make that part of the website look good.
He was really looking forward to these lessons. There were two instructors who co-taught this class, alternating weeks, and both of them had an excellent reputation. One of them was Paula Scher, a big name artist in her fifties, who wore long flowing dresses, long flowing hair and clunky glasses. The other was Blaine Anderson, a very young guy who’d won a prestigious prize when he was barely twenty, but instead of capitalising on that to make his fortune, he’d chosen to teach.
Elliott had taken Professor Anderson’s Colour Theory class last semester, and raved over the guy’s talent… and his looks. Apparently, he was hot, and he had “the finest ass on the planet”.
Kurt had rolled his eyes at that, and quipped, “You dare to say that while I’m right here in front of you?”, jokingly grinding his ass against Elliott. But it had made him curious all the same. He hoped that he’d get to check out the hot professor today.
As soon as he came into the classroom, his hopes were dashed, however. Professor Scher stood at the whiteboard, smiling at everyone who came in and using the mouse pad on her laptop to start up a slideshow.
The exercises she made them do were interesting and funny, and the time flew by. Class ran over a little, and Kurt had to hurry to get to Devon’s apartment in time for his midday walk. As soon as he opened the door, Devon was there, his tail wagging like mad and his tongue hanging out in a doggie smile.
“You ready for your walk? Let’s go!”
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IN THE CAR WORLD, THERE ARE ALL THOSE PEOPLE
We've taken a nice, durable medium for finished ideas, but their production. Look at this, for example, were almost as corrupt in the first year of a startup as it grows larger? What they go by is the number of good books. Reddit. But hunter gatherers didn't treat land, for example; they're already pariahs. It implies there's no punishment if you fail. We plan to mine the web for these implicit tags, and use them together with the reputation hierarchy they embody to enhance web searches. The reason I describe this as a new idea and ask him to invest in come to him through referrals.1 It's that adults take responsibility for your life.
Even when you're actively working on a program, it's more efficient to work in the other direction.2 One of the things that will surprise you if you build something popular is that you shouldn't relax just because you have no visible competitors yet. If you're a good hacker in your mid twenties, you can compete with specialization by working on larger vertical slices, you can watch them learn by doing. Making a living is only a proxy after all, and you're not doing it individually, but along with a small group. I'm not saying you shouldn't hang out with your friends—that several problems we take for granted are in fact not insoluble after all. 0 meaning the web as a platform didn't live much past the first conference, someone must have decided they'd better take a stab at explaining what that 2. If they'd waited to release everything at once, they wouldn't have discovered this problem till it was more a flaw their eminence had allowed them to sink into. If you can't tell. And so, apparently, do society wives; in some parts of Manhattan, life for women sounds like a continuation of high school, I let myself believe that my job was to be the default plan in big companies is that they don't realize how incompetent they are.3
This is another one I've been repeating that since 1993, and I think the problem here is that teenagers are always on duty as conformists. And that's why smart people's lives are worst between, say, physical appearance, charisma, or athletic ability. It's no defense to say that the situation degenerates into a popularity contest. Ditto for hacking. They are to the print media.4 I don't think many people like the slow pace of big companies, the patent pledge does fix may be more serious than the problem of patent trolls. Instead you should draw a few quick lines in roughly the right place, and then returned two months later and not one thing had changed.5
Sometimes they even agree with one another, but are so caught up in their squabble they don't realize how incompetent they are. If you're writing for other people to use.6 It has a long way to run. By feature I mean one unit of hacking—one pristine old car the richer. This is where it's helpful to have working democracies and multiple sovereign countries.7 But surely a necessary, if not sufficient, condition was that people who made fortunes be able to get a big chunk of code available then was Unix, but even this was not open source. You're done at 3 o'clock, and you decide to draw each brick individually. No wonder you become cynical. If there were two features we could add to our software, both equally valuable in proportion to their difficulty, we'd always take the harder choice. It's pierced in a few long sessions than many short ones.
But it's very useful to be able to say what the most important reason to release early, though, are busy. You can take out the whole point if you need to go running. More often it was just an arbitrary series of hoops to jump through, words without content designed mainly for testability.8 If I have to do something people want, we are nowhere near as smart. Nearly all makers have day jobs early in their careers. Most people like to be alone, so when kids opt out of the system, just as I once felt bad that I didn't hold my pencil the way they taught me to in college.9 Flying a glider is a good offense. We were a bit like an adult would be if he were thrust back into middle school. So if a piece of code is being hacked by three or four people see that, whereas tens of thousands see business as it's practiced by Boeing or Philip Morris. There will of course come a point where you shake hands and the deal's done. The Dish. They would have both carrot and stick to motivate them.
So get to work. I bet that particular firm will end up being like a common-room.10 You're trying to solve problems that users care about. Whereas if you solve a technical problem that a lot of people seem to consider the ability to draw as some kind of dreamer who sketched artists' conceptions of rocket ships on the side, I'm not proposing this as a danger is that series A investors are increasingly at odds with the startups they supposedly serve, and that this must have in turn been expanded by the editors into throngs of geeks. When you tread water, you lift yourself up by pushing water down. They want to be popular. In principle you could make any mark in any medium; in practice the medium steers you. I've been visiting them for years and I still occasionally get lost. You're short of money, and that he did all the actual design of the Apple I and Apple II in his apartment or his cube at HP.
The way I worked, it seemed to mean keeping your mouth shut. McDonald's franchise, that could then be reproduced at will all over the face of the earth. Ditto for hacking. A great deal has been written about the causes of the Industrial Revolution? Why? You can start to treat parts as black boxes once you feel confident you've fully explored them.11 The 2005 Web 2.
Notes
A related problem that they were more at the time it still seems to them.
But friends should be easy to get the answer, 5050.
I'm also an investor I saw this I used to be the dual meaning of distribution. We consciously optimize for this essay, Richard and David Whitehouse, Mohammed, Charlemagne and the first time as an asset class. They influence one another directly through the buzz that surrounds wisdom in ancient philosophy may be the dual meaning of life.
If you're building something for free.
94. Which is not as a collection itself. Stone, op. Philosophy is like starting out in the angel is being able to distinguish 1956 from 1957 Studebakers.
In desperation people reach for the explanation of a safe environment, but they're not ready to invest at any valuation the founders enough autonomy that they got started as a predictor of success. In 1998 a lot of investors started offering investment automatically to every startup we funded, summer 2010. Is this unfair?
Founders also worry that taking an angel investment from a few months by buying their startups.
The Nineteenth-Century History of English. Math is the number of discrepancies currently blamed on various forbidden isms. On the other. The reason Y Combinator is a qualitative difference in investors' attitudes.
But when you lose that protection, e. It seemed better to read an original book, bearing in mind that it's hard to say that the valuation should be the model for Internet clients too. By Paleolithic standards, technology evolved at a time machine. The founders who take big acquisition offers most successful investment, Uber, from which they don't want to sell your company right now.
As far as I know, Lisp code.
So it is to do, so had a big company, meaning a high school.
#automatically generated text#Markov chains#Paul Graham#Python#Patrick Mooney#content#explanation#A#Combinator#company#dreamer#series#years#life#startups#specialization#society#Morris#school#lines#something#Industrial#answer#class#pace#buzz#problems#water#car#living
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Unexpected
Prompt #1: I’d like an AU with Peeta as a single dad with a kid who’s always getting in trouble. Katniss is the kid’s teacher. Love follows :) [submitted by Anonymous]
Written by: @xerxia31
Notes: This is part one of what will likely be a three part arc. This chapter is rated T for strong language.
——
I rap my knuckles against the doorframe, more out of habit than necessity. Haymitch has an open door policy, at least where I’m concerned. He glances up from his desk, looking more haggard than usual, but when he sees me his eyes soften. “Sweetheart,” he rasps. “Come on in.”
If anyone else dared to call Katniss Everdeen sweetheart, I’d probably punch them. But Haymitch Abernathy is my late father’s longtime friend, and the closest thing to a parent I have.
He’s also, as principal of District Twelve Elementary School, my boss.
I slide into the chair across from him, shaking my head as he tilts his towards the desk drawer, an unspoken offer of a drink. Instead, I wait. Haymitch and I are long past small talk. With a smirk, he pushes a manilla folder across the desk. “New kid for your class,” he says.
“What’s the catch?” I ask. Mid-year transfers aren’t uncommon, certainly not worth actually calling me into his office to talk about. I pick up the slim folder, weighing it thoughtfully. I teach first grade, so my student files are never very thick, but this one seems to have a few more pages than typical. Curious, I flip it open. Stapled to the first page is a small picture of the new student. He’s cute. Most of the kids that filter in and out of my class are cute, six-year-olds usually are. But this little guy is cuter than average, an over-long mop of golden curls over pale blue eyes, chubby cheeks and a gap-toothed grin. “Max Van Allen,” I read aloud.
“He comes with a bit of a reputation.” Haymitch says. I raise an eyebrow, and he continues. “D-Two calls him a troublemaker.”
I glance back at the wallet-sized picture. It’s hard to believe the little cherub pictured could be a hellion. But flipping through the pages of incident reports gives a very different picture. Doesn’t listen. Doesn’t play well with other children. Disruptive. Then again, District Two has a reputation for being a somewhat stricter school, located as it is in the most affluent part of the state.
“You dragged me in here at lunch just to saddle me with a brat? Why don’t you put him in Beetee’s class? I’m pretty sure it’s his turn.”
“I got you out of playground supervision, Sweetheart,” he growls, and I smirk because it’s true, and he knows supervising the kids post-lunch, when they’re antsy and hopped up on juice, is my least favourite activity. After a moment he shrugs. “Besides, you’re a better fit for this one.”
My smartass retort dies on my tongue as I skim little Max’s contact information. Mother: deceased. “Oh,” I say softly, understanding, and he nods.
“Happened last summer. Figured you’d remember how that felt, maybe understand the kid better than Beetee could.”
I was a little older than Max when I lost my father, but I remember the pain and confusion as if it were yesterday. And I’m sure Haymitch remembers how sullen I was back then. How disruptive my sister Prim was. How long it took us to get over his loss.
Not that we ever did. Not fully anyway. And Haymitch knows that too. I sigh. “When does he start?”
“Monday.”
——
Max turns out to be a charming, gregarious little fellow. He marches into my class his first day with a smile and a single sunshine-frosted cookie in a glassine envelope, ‘for my new teacher’. He enthrals the school bus driver and the lunch lady too, effortlessly. And for the first few days it feels like District Two and Haymitch have exaggerated the potential for trouble.
But the bloom is off the rose quickly.
Though he can be sweet, he’s clearly not accustomed to compromise. He’s bossy and demanding, doesn’t like to share, is quick to throw tantrums and lash out when he doesn’t get his way. By the end of week two, the staff are throwing around words like ‘spoiled’ and ‘menace’.
I try partnering him with different kids every day, trying to ease him into our routines, find a comfortable fit for him, but each choice is less and less successful. Soon enough, he’s spending more time in time out than actually interacting with the other students. And as his behaviour deteriorates, the other kids stop wanting to play with him, which makes things worse. Max becomes progressively angrier, often brooding. Refuses to do his seatwork. Refuses to engage in the lessons. A few gentle notes home suggesting that Max is having trouble integrating come back with vague scrawled promises of talking to him. But if anything, the situation worsens. He becomes belligerent, seems to take a sadistic pleasure in pushing buttons - mine and the rest of the staff’s. I’m forced to send him to Haymitch repeatedly.
“I don’t know what to do with him,” I admit to my mentor one lunch break over turkey sandwiches (for me) and scotch (for Haymitch). “He can be really sweet sometimes. But he’s so angry, so mad at the world.”
“Sound familiar, Sweetheart?” Haymitch laughs. He’s right, of course. I could be describing myself fifteen years ago.
“What can I do?” I don’t like to seem incompetent, but I’m truly at a loss. And I know Haymitch placed Max with me because he thinks I can help.
“Kid doesn’t have a mother. Maybe he needs a mother figure in his life, at least for a few hours a day?”
I snort. “Haymitch, I’d be shitty at that. You know I don’t want kids.”
“I also know that’s because you love them, and are too damned afraid of seeing them get hurt like you were.” It’s hard to argue with that. So I shrug. But I’m no closer to figuring out what to do with Max.
——
It’s a Wednesday morning, just about a month after Max arrived, and I glance over at his desk. The other children are all happily colouring and cutting out drawings of clothing for our vocabulary lesson, and chatting among themselves. But Max is staring out the window. Instead of the angry face he’s been wearing almost constantly, what I see now is a sad, lonely little boy. And my heart breaks for him.
So when lunchtime comes, I ask my classroom helper to walk the other children down to the lunch room.
But I keep Max behind.
He sits as his desk, head hanging, tearing a piece of paper into tiny scraps. “I’d like to talk with you, Max,” I start. “Can you tell me what’s going on?” He shrugs. “It seems like you’re not very happy here,” I start and his blue eyes snap up to mine.
“Are you going to send me away now?” He’s wearing his typical defiant expression, but his bottom lip trembles. And though I’ve taught over a hundred kids in the four years I’ve been with District Twelve, there’s something about this little guy in particular that tugs pretty hard at my heartstrings. Maybe it’s because I see so much of myself in his tough exterior and tender heart.
“No Max, I’m your teacher and this is your classroom until you’re ready to move up to second grade. You’re going to stay here with me for the rest of the year.” I hope I’m telling him the truth, I’m uncertain of the reason for his mid-year move, though I assume it has something to do with his mother’s death. But I think what he needs, more than anything, is some stability. And if I can give him that, I will.
“But I’m a bad boy,” he says.
“You’re not bad,” I tell him, but he’s looking out the window again. “Max,” I say gently, then wait until he turns to me. His soft blue eyes shimmer. “You’re not a bad boy. Sometimes you do things without thinking carefully, but you’re not bad. Okay?”
“Papa says I’m bad. That’s why I’m here.” The tears overflow and I instinctively open my arms to him. He clings tightly, crying on my shoulder.
“You’re a good person, Max.” My voice is a little rough and I have to speak around the lump in my throat. “You’re a really special kid, and I like you a lot.” At those words he pulls back a bit, utterly perplexed, and I wonder if no one has told him that they like him? How could that be?
But then I think back to my own childhood. When my father died I desperately needed an adult to tell me everything was going to be okay. And for the longest time, there was no one. My mother fell apart when she lost her husband, incapable of supporting her children emotionally. Until Haymitch stepped in, Prim and I were tetherless, angry and so very afraid. I can see in little Max a lot of the same fear and confusion. And I vow to help him.
——
After our talk, there are some improvements in Max’s behaviour. Not a lot, and they’re subtle, but I see them.
He looks to me more and more frequently for guidance, when he’s struggling to get along with one of his peers. And because I’m keeping a close eye on him, I’m able to encourage him in a way that doesn’t look like an intervention.
He comes to me for comfort too. I do what I can, but my hands are a little tied by the school board and by regulations and by the simple fact that with twenty-six children in my classroom my time is limited. But he gladly takes what little I offer, blossoming like a dandelion under a few words of praise.
All of which makes me angrier and angrier with his father, this man who tells his son that he’s a ‘bad boy’, who clearly isn’t offering the child what he needs, emotionally.
The day that the children draw family portraits, and Max’s shows just a single, tiny figure in front of a large house, I know I have to do something more. The only thing I can think of is to meet with the asshole father, to try to reason with him in person. So I ask Effie, our secretary, to set something up.
——
Mr. Van Allen and his son are a study in the power of genetics.
Standing in my classroom doorway, they could be the same person, twenty-some years apart. Blond hair, fair skin, stocky builds. Both wear identical expressions of unease.
When Max notices me, his little face lights up, and he runs across the room to hug me. I ruffle his hair and grin, but then I glance at his father, who looks stunned. I turn my attention back to the important person in the room. “Hello Max,” I say, and he beams at me. “Would you like to show your papa where your desk is?” It’s an easy way to make the parent more comfortable, and to give the child a modicum of control over the situation. Most kids love it. Max scowls.
“He’s not my papa,” he grumbles, not even sparing the blond man a glance. “That’s Peeta.”
I glance up in confusion. The man shifting uncomfortably in the doorway is obviously related to little Max, they’re virtual clones. “I’m Max’s father,” he confirms tightly, his neck and cheeks flooding with colour. He can barely make eye contact as he walks towards us. I wonder if he has a bad temper.
“Miss Everdeen,” I say, reaching out to shake his hand, which is huge and clammy. “It’s nice to meet you Mr. Van Allen.”
“Oh, it’s uh, Mellark,” he says, and the flush deepens. “Peeta Mellark. Max has his late mother’s name.”
Oh.
I take an absolutely inappropriate glance at Max’s father’s left hand. Bare, not that the lack of a wedding band means anything. “I’m sorry,” I tell him, confused. “I thought it said Van Allen in the record.” Mr. Mellark nods.
“Max was living with his maternal grandparents until fairly recently. Their names are probably still in there.”
Oh.
“Right,” I murmur, and vow to kick Haymitch in the shin tomorrow morning. Jerk could have warned me. “Max,” I say, turning my attention back to the moppet who is now holding my hand. “Will you show your father your desk?”
So not only is Max’s dad an asshole, he’s a deadbeat asshole.
But even as I think it, I can’t reconcile that with the man standing in front of me, blue eyes wide and wary, shoulders hunched in defeat. He looks nearly as frightened as a kindergartener on the first day of school.
Letting Max show his papa - no, his father - his desk also allows me to observe them, watch their interactions. I’ve left a folder of Max’s schoolwork on the desk, Mr. Mellark seems genuinely interested in Max’s creations, smiling, offering praise. But Max shows him the papers mechanically, not engaging with the older man in anything other than a superficial manner. Hostile, even.
I’m completely bewildered.
“Max,” I call gently when the silence has stretched between them too long. Two pairs of blue eyes swing to mine, shining with frustration. “I set up a new story at the music station for you.” A huge smile stretches across his face, story time is his favourite and while audiobooks aren’t as much fun as sitting on the carpet listening to a book read live, they’re still pretty great.
While Max listens to his story, giant headphones perched on his golden head, I sit at my desk with his father. Before I can start, he speaks. “I know Max can be difficult, but underneath he’s a really good kid, I promise you that.” His face is earnest, almost begging me to see his son as worthy.
“I know,” I say, confused. I wasn’t expecting him to defend Max, and so vehemently. Startled blue eyes meet my own.
“You do?”
“Well yeah, of course.”
Mr. Mellark’s shoulders sag in relief. At my expression, he continues. “The staff in District Two, they completely demonized the poor kid, made it seem like he was incorrigible.” He clears his throat.
“Is that why you switched schools?” It comes out a little more terse than I mean it to. But if this guy is accustomed to just running away from his problems I want to know, and I want to ensure he’s not going to do that to Max again.
“Uh, no.” Mr. Mellark won’t meet my eyes, staring out the window in much the same way his son often does. “District Two is close to Max’s grandparents’s house, but I live in Victor’s Village.” It’s a community not far from where I myself live in the Seam. “And now that he lives with me…” he trails off, shrugging.
It doesn’t make any sense. I know Max’s mother died over the summer, why did they have him start first grade at District Two if his father lives here? But it’s not my place to debate their choices, only to ensure that Max is getting the support he needs.
“Max is having a lot of trouble adjusting,” I say, switching tack. “He’s generally unhappy, and he’s not bonding with any of his classmates. I’m worried–” I cut off my sentence abruptly as Max comes running across the classroom.
“Miss Everdeen, guess what?” he says, nestling right up to me, and I can’t help but grin. Away from the other kids, from the stress and confusion of the classroom, he really is a sweetie. Without conscious thought, I push his over-long curls out of his eyes as he animatedly tells me what Mouse is doing in the book so far. His gap-toothed grin is huge. After a quick accounting, he agrees to go back and listen to more of the story, and skips back across the classroom.
I’m still smiling when I turn back to his father, but my smile falters a little at the pained expression on his face. He’s looking over at his son with such sadness, I’d almost call it longing. Only then do I realize that Max hadn’t shared anything about the book with his father, hadn’t even spared Mr. Mellark a glance as far as I can tell. Clearly, something is fundamentally shattered in the relationship between father and son, and that’s far beyond my abilities to address.
“Have you thought about maybe taking Max to talk with a grief counsellor?” It’s always dicey, suggesting professional help to parents. Far too often what they hear is ‘your child is broken and it’s your fault’. But Mr. Mellark doesn’t go on the defensive. Instead, he smiles ruefully, his eyes still fixed on Max.
“We’re on our third psychologist since the move,” he sighs.
“I’m sure his mother’s death has been very confusing for him,” I say. He grimaces, still watching Max. “And, uhm. And for you too,” I add awkwardly. At that, Mr. Mellark huffs out a laugh, though there’s no mirth in his expression.
“Can I be frank with you?” he asks, sliding his eyes to mine. For the first time, I see the anger I was expecting. It somehow centres me, makes me remember that this douchecanoe is failing his kid in every way.
“Sure,” I offer, leaning back and crossing my arms.
He turns his attention back to Max, oblivious in his headphones. “I don’t think Max had much of a relationship with his mother. I don’t know for sure though because…” he trails off, his jaw tensing, as if it’s physically painful to talk. I wait him out. Finally, he continues. “Because I didn’t know Max existed until after she died.”
What?
He’s silent for so long that I’m sure he isn’t going to explain. Finally, he sighs, and it’s as if the anger flows out of him with that sound. “Glimmer - his mother - she and I went to college together. I didn’t know her very well, but we had some mutual friends. We hooked up once, at a party in junior year.”
“And she got pregnant.” I want to slap myself for saying it out loud because duh. But he’s not looking at me anyway.
“Yeah, apparently. But she didn’t tell me. I never saw her again, never spoke with her again. Her parents have been taking care of Max since he was born.”
“How did…” I gesture helplessly between him and where Max sits, blessedly unaware of our conversation.
“The Van Allens tracked me down. Thankfully, Glimmer had at least named me on Max’s birth certificate, even if she never told me.” His voice drips with resentment. “They’re elderly. Mrs. Van Allen has a lot of health concerns and Mr. Van Allen has no patience. They just weren’t up to the task of caring for Max. I think they believed Glimmer would eventually give up her party ways and be a mother to Max. But that didn’t happen. And it never will now.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, because I am, and because I have no idea what else to say. So Max isn’t reeling from the loss of one parent, but of two; his grandparents. “Does Max still see his grandparents?”
“He’s seen them a few times, but they just can’t keep up with him now that he’s older and more active. He tires them out too quickly.” He sighs. “They love him, I know that. But they never set any limits for him, he never had any rules. And Glimmer wandered in and out of his life, she wasn’t around enough to parent him. He ruled the roost.”
“So Max is having trouble adjusting to your authority?” He shakes his head sadly.
“He barely even acknowledges my existence,” he admits softly. We both fall quiet, I’m forced to examine the assumptions I’d made, both about Max and his father, and see how wrong most of them were. Armed with this new information, I can’t help but feel awful for both of the blonds sitting in my classroom.
“Max, ah. He seems to like you very much.” Mr. Mellark’s quiet assertion snaps me out of my reverie.
“I like him too.” I glance over at Max, who is again absorbed in his audiobook.
“He hasn’t really bonded with any of my family, with anyone at all, really. And we’re working on that with the psychologist. But I wonder, if. Well…” He trails off. His ears are pink-tipped again, and he won’t meet my eyes. “You’re the only person he seems to have any sort of attachment to.”
“What do you mean?”
“Max talks about you, Miss Everdeen. You’re the only thing he’s mentioned about school at all. And I wonder…” He trails off as Max, clearly having listened to the entire thirty minute run time of the audiobook, takes off the giant headphones and wanders back over to us. Again, he approaches my side of the desk, not his father’s. Mr. Mellark looks stricken.
I had intended on speaking with them about behaviour rewards, but I can see that adhesive stars aren’t going to make any difference in this case. Though I’m not a psychologist, I have a strong feeling that what they truly need is each other. And maybe that’s something I can nudge along. “We have a class parent program here,” I start, keeping my voice light but willing Mr. Mellark to understand. “Volunteers who come in for a couple of hours a week to help with arts and crafts, or story time.”
His blue eyes shine with understanding… and gratitude. “I could definitely spare a couple of afternoons from the bakery,” Mr. Mellark says. “Would that be alright with you, Max?” Max shrugs, but I catch a hint of interest behind his indifferent mask.
——
This man is made to be a parent.
Mr. Mellark - Peeta - has spent ninety minutes in my classroom each Tuesday and Friday afternoon for the past two weeks. And he is so, so good with the children. He’s boundlessly patient, even when Lila knocked her jar of paint water over for the fourth time. His smiles and gentle words have charmed every kid in the class.
Well, every child but one.
Max sometimes glances at his father with curiosity, but resists interacting directly. But Peeta tries, over and over.
My heart hurts for both of them.
After today’s art project, the kids line up to file outside for recess with my teaching aide. Peeta tries to say goodbye to Max but, as usual, Max is having none of it, refusing to acknowledge his father at all, shrugging off the gentle hand Peeta sets on his shoulder, and marching away.
I stay behind, watching Peeta gather up papers and supplies, stacking them neatly for me. He’s so considerate, so unlike what I was expecting. And I don’t think it’s just an act for the classroom. I’ve spoken with him on the phone a few times, planning for his classroom visits, discussing Max’s behaviour, and, yeah, just chatting. He’s nice to talk to, always calm, steady, kind. I don’t make friends easily but Peeta, like his son, crept up on me.
Today though, I can see in the way his shoulders are hunched that he’s completely dispirited.
“Hey,” I say, coming to stand beside him. He glances away, sucking in a shuddering breath.
“He hates me. My own son hates me.” There’s no self-pity in his voice. Just resignation.
“He doesn’t hate you, Peeta,” I tell him, and reach out to gently touch his arm. “He’s afraid to love you. Because everyone he’s ever loved has left him.”
Peeta lifts his eyes, holding mine in a way that makes every hair on my body stand up; makes me feel like, in that moment, he can see straight into my soul, read the fear and loneliness of my own early years as clearly as the chalkboard behind us. But instead of calling attention to my history, dissecting my pain, he merely sighs and asks, “What can I do?”
“Show him that you’re not going anywhere, and neither is he. Make sure he knows this is permanent, that you’re his daddy forever.”
“I’ve missed out on so much already, Katniss. His first smile, his first steps, his first word. I can’t get that time back. To him, I’m just some stranger who stole him away from his home.”
“You’re doing everything right.” I slide my hand up to his shoulder, rub comforting circles on his back. “Just be patient. He’ll come around.”
“I hope so,” he says. “It’s all I want. I love him, I truly do, and I hate seeing him so miserable.”
It’s so perfectly Peeta, to be worried not about his own bruised feelings like so many other people in this situation might be, but instead he’s worried about Max. I can’t help but be angry on his behalf, angry that he was denied an opportunity to be a father to Max for so long. I know he carries so much guilt about it too. Max could have - should have - had a loving, supportive parent all along.
But it’s not too late, I’m certain of that. These two need each other. I really believe they’re going to figure that out. And I’ll do anything I can to help.
We stand side-by-side in silence, each lost in thought as I rub his back, completely oblivious to the passage of time. Then the bell rings, warning me that recess is over and my room will soon be overrun by six year olds again. “Shoot,” he says. “I’d better run. I’m sorry I wasted your whole break.” He shoves the last of the supplies onto the shelf, and turns to leave, but I catch his hand.
“Hey, no, you didn’t waste my time. I, uh, I’m glad we can talk. I mean–” Ugh, I can talk to little kids for hours at a time, but I can’t articulate a single thought to this man. “I like talking with you, Peeta.”
He smiles, just a little. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I smile too. He squeezes my hand, but already we can hear the clomping of children filing back into the school. With a little wave, he slips out of the class before the kids return.
It’s only an hour later that I realize that in his hurry to get out before the kids came back, he left his messenger bag behind. I send him a text, offering to bring it to him in the morning, and he gratefully accepts. And okay, I admit it’s not just that I’m a super nice person. I also kind of like the idea of seeing him again, away from the classroom.
——
Mellark’s bakery is a charming old storefront on the corner of Victor’s and Main, an area I’ve never really frequented despite it being no more than ten minutes from my house. Even before I’m close enough to read the sign, I can smell the hot yeasty aroma of fresh bread, and a faint hint of cinnamon underneath. It’s mouthwatering. Huge old-fashioned glass windows glint in the morning sun, and the front door is propped open, beckoning me in.
The inside is just as nice, black and white checkerboard tiles and warm wood everywhere. Pristine glass cases filled with utterly delectable-looking goodies. A few tables are scattered by the large windows, the perfect place to sit with a coffee and a treat and watch the world go by. It’s a good thing I didn’t know this place existed before now, I might never have left.
Equally attractive is the trifecta of blond men in my midst. Two stand behind the counter, engrossed in low conversation. Peeta, looking even more more appealing than usual in a simple white tee that emphasizes his broad chest and muscled arms. I had no idea he was hiding that under the button down shirts he usually wears to the school. Beside him, a man who can only be his own father - same height, same build, same golden curls, though the elder Mellark’s are shot with silver and cropped a little more closely. Clearly the Mellark genes are strong. Either that, or they’re cloning themselves in the bakery kitchen.
The third Mellark sits at one of the tall tables, busily colouring. The morning sun filters through his hair, haloing him. If this was your only impression of Max Van Allen Mellark, you might think he was an angel. But his brows are drawn together in more than just concentration. Anger, annoyance, and frustration are all painted on his features.
Peeta looks up, catches me standing in the doorway and smiles gently. “Hey,” he says. “You found us.”
When Max hears his father’s voice, he too looks up, and the angry expression melts away. “Miss Everdeen!” he yells, clambering down from the high stool. “You came to visit!” He skips across the bakery and hugs me tight.
“I came to see you, and to bring back your daddy’s bag. He forgot it in our class yesterday.” Peeta has moved from behind the counter, smiling as he approaches us. Behind him, Max’s grandfather just looks stunned. Peeta’s mentioned before that Max hasn’t bonded well with very many people, but I don’t think I appreciated until now just how special the bond he and I have developed is.
“Thank you, Katniss,” he says softly, those stunning blue eyes warm and welcoming. I know he’s not just talking about the satchel. “Will you stay and have breakfast with us?”
I don’t have a chance to answer before Max is hopping up and down, yanking on my hand to guide me over to the table where he was sitting. “Yes, yes, stay, please!” he chirps. And I can’t help but laugh. His enthusiasm is adorable, and all too rare.
As I get settled, Peeta asks Max if he’d like to get something for me from the pastry case. Max looks surprised, wary but a little pleased too. It might be the first time I’ve seen him look at Peeta with anything other than contempt. “What would you like to eat, Miss Everdeen?” he asks. I can’t help but grin at his formality. He might not show it, but he’s clearly been listening to Peeta serve customers.
“What’s your favourite thing to eat here, Max?” I ask, and he shrugs, but I’m undeterred. “I’d like to try whatever you like best.” He nods, just once, and turns to run behind the counter.
“Get one for yourself too, Max,” Peeta calls as he walks to the fancy coffee machine, laughing quietly.
Peeta returns with two mugs of hot chocolate, and a cup of tea for himself, and Max carries two ceramic plates with all of the precision a six-year-old can manage, proudly setting one in front of me. “What’s this, Max?” I ask. It’s golden and flaky, covered in a thick layer of bubbly cheese.
“Cheese buns,” he says, climbing onto the stool beside me. “Hey, you like hot chocolate too?” He gestures to my mug. “It’s my favourite!” Peeta watches with amusement as Max nimbly slurps the melting whipped cream from his own mug.
Grinning, I pull a corner off the treat sitting in front of me. It smells fantastic. And as the rich, buttery pastry melts on my tongue I can’t suppress a groan. “This is fantastic,” I sigh. Why didn’t I know about this place sooner? “Did you make these?” I tease Max. He shakes his head solemnly.
“Would you like to learn how?” Peeta asks his son hesitantly. “It’s a very old recipe, my father taught me and your uncles when we were about your age. I’d love to teach you, too.” Max looks at him warily. But then he nods, tentatively but still, a nod. Peeta’s smile is brighter than the sunlight streaming through the windows, and so much warmer too.
“Look Miss Everdeen,” Max says shyly. “This is how I like to eat my cheese buns.” He tears off little pieces or the bread, dipping them in his hot chocolate before eating them. I do the same, to humour him, and it isn’t half bad.
I spend another half hour in the bakery in pleasant conversation. Peeta’s father wanders over in between customers, he’s just as kind and charming as his son. Max continues to act mostly indifferent to his father and grandfather. But I know what I saw. A little flash of hope.
——
“Miss Everdeen!” Max practically bursts through the classroom door, charging at me excitedly. That’s a good sign I think, especially for a Monday. “Look what I made you!” He’s clutching a white paper bag and I know what I’ll find inside.
The cheese bun is just perfect.
“You made that?” Leevy Richards is staring inquisitively over Max’s shoulder. He stiffens, but instead of lashing out at her like he typically would, he just shrugs. “Like by yourself?” Leevy can be a little pushy.
“My dad helped with the oven, but I did everything else.” There’s a small, proud smile on his face. Leevy grins too. “He’s going to teach me how to make cookies next.”
My heart feels like it’ll pound out of my chest. Max is interacting with one of his classmates in a non-confrontational manner. Maybe even friendly. And even more that that: Max referred to Peeta as his father, for the first time.
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June 20th, 2017 (Kavousi, Crete, Greece)
This week’s hours have been arduously long and I’ve been desperately trying to get more sleep without missing out on too much. The culture shock has been a bit overwhelming and the surplus of experiences is inundating my mental dam and overtaking my writing speed’s capacity. We had to work six days last week, which comprised of nine hours of physical labor everyday, seven hours on site and two hours in the gym. This crazy schedule is pushing my body to its limits but I am slowly growing accustomed to it. My mornings have become as rigid as a science experiment protocol. I unconsciously begin to take out $5.20 every morning at the bakery for my pastries. For these past six days, only three out of five trench members were on site, and the low numbers have blessed me with some extra digging practice and has allowed me to bond with a fewer number of people on a deeper level. There were rumors about negative drama pervading some trenches, and I really didn’t want my trench to develop that kind of culture. Thus, I attempted to make jokes in the morning as an effort to wake others up and lift the mood, even though I was dead exhausted inside. Alex and I have begun giving each other gifts every once in a while. Since Azoria is located in the mountains, any sea stone found on site must have climb there with some form of ancient human assistance. Because there’s no useful analytical data that could be obtained from these sea stones, they are the perfect, and only, ancient objects that we are allowed to keep. I would find a few round pebbles in the sieve every day and I would give them to Alex as presents. He keeps them all in the side pocket of cargo pants, which I find very cute. As the excavation progresses, I intend to build him a large collection; by the end of the trip, I hope he can look back on them as a metaphor for a wonderful third year at Azoria.
Before this week and due to the rain days, our longest streak of site work was three days. This week jumped to a dramatic six days of full-fledged plowing in 27 degrees Celsius weather. It was the physical equivalent of transitioning from Compsci 101 to Compsci 201. The sun literally cooks us like human-sized pieces of Kobe steak and our metal skaliskiris became so hot that our callouses were no less tender than sunny-side up eggs on a frying pan. Today, I woke up unable to completely close my hands, and it’s a miracle that I am still typing right now. I have probably consumed more than two grams of ibuprofen this week alone, a portion that would have probably lasted me a whole month of Ultimate Frisbee at Duke. But at some point in the middle of this week, a mental shell cracked and I entered a new state of mind about excavating, finding myself no longer afraid of the heat, the blisters, and the dirt. I was wearing work gloves for the previous two weeks but I have almost completely given up on them at this point. The clay surfaces and cobble packing require a lot of feeling and touch with certain tools, and while being able to discern certain layers of earth from others sounds like a fictitious ability, understand where clay floors exist is indeed an acquired skill and grasping it has been oddly gratifying. Since it was just Lexi, Kate, and I digging for a while, we have also begun to develop an affinity for certain skaliskiris. Tucker had marked his with the blue twist tie, I had marked mine with a black one, and I helped Lexi mark hers with a green-yellow one. In the end, interestingly, not only have I become attached to my team and the B-trenches, but I have also become clingy to the tools I work with.
On that note, I would like to emphasize I love working with the people in my trench. I love the atmosphere that we’re building, one filled with support, compliments, and, most importantly, sarcastic jokes. Even though Lexi sat behind me on the plane ride from Athens to Heraklion, I, until this week, never really had a full on conversation and quality time with her. She turned out to be a religiously committed volleyball player, practicing almost every day back at Trent University. That was something I could relate to very sincerely because I have lived, and I still continue to live, that lifestyle at Duke. Part of my conscience picked up on that aspect of her character from prior short interactions. There was a determination, sense of self, and mental toughness that is forged almost exclusively through intense participation in and commitment to a physical activity. I am just beginning to know Kate and talk to her more. She seems wholly wonderful like a book just waiting to be read. Later on in the week, she was really sick for a few days, and it was unfortunate that she couldn’t join me and Lexi on site. One of her fellow Iowa State friends’ grandmother passed away, and, even when she was getting sick, Kate sacrificed her entire night’s time and sleep to make sure that Jasmine booked the right flights and would have a safe and worry-free trip home. Her effort impressed me and after witnessing her concern and care, I will definitely make a conscious effort to talk to her more and get to know her better. Overall, in conclusion, working in Alex’s trench is truly a pleasure and I hope we continue to grow and maintain a positive culture for the remaining four weeks.
In addition to bonding with the people in my trench, I am slowly getting to know Alex a lot better as well. After long days on site, we have begun working out in this small makeshift garage gym owned by a local Greek man named Tosos. One can easily tell that Alex is a studious and incredibly kind man just by his demeanor, which radiated from the very timbre of his voice and the form in which he carries himself. However, there is an implacable beast in the man that awakens when the weights start clanking and the music starts beating. His rest intervals are short and he loves to pack his exercises into supersets, which, painfully, tore through all the ATP reserves I had in less than half an hour. His choices of lifts are forcefully dynamic and the pace is unforgivingly quick. The Cretan sun cooks the building we workout in, making it a furnace by the time we arrived at around 5:30 p.m. The oven pushes your exhaustion and blood flow to its absolute limit and every rep gave a pump I that was as novel to me as this island was itself. For the rest of the summer, I am going to put my trust in Alex and I will strive to continue following his workout regime. Having been an athlete all my life, I believe one’s attitude in athletics often translates to his or her work habits in other aspects of life. Now I have no doubt how hard he works at UNC, and I am super glad to have met a principled and persevering man like him.
If you didn’t know before, the two things in the world that I am the most afraid of and the worst at are dancing and singing. If I had to dance and sing in front of a large crowd alone on stage to save my life, I think I would prefer death. This past Tuesday was one of those days when I felt adventurous and bold. So, when David came downstairs and asked me to attend a traditional Cretan dance lesson with him, I said yes and walked out the door with slight hesitation.
The classroom was this mistakenly abandoned building that we’d walk by every day after excavating. The space was overwhelmingly green, and, in a mercurial flashback, I knew that my brother, whose favorite color is green, would have loved it here. The building was a large space converted into a classroom around fifteen or twenty years ago. Two bookshelves and blackboards were haphazardly placed on either sides of the room and both lengths had windows like that of a Gothic church. The blackboards seemed long out of use and parts of the chalk have been stuck on the board for so long that it could have easily juxtaposed some graffiti on a tunnel wall in Durham, North Carolina. One of the bookcases contained beautiful ancient tomes that consisted of, if I recall correctly, almost 20 volumes. The books seemed to be much older than the classroom, as if they were heirlooms of an old family of Kavousi that contained all of this villages’ ancient histories and bloodlines. The other bookshelf was a dramatic contrast, filled top to bottom with children’s books. David and I could not read the Greek, but the images were hilariously entertaining, depicting people of different cultures from around the world. Its depiction of Chinese people was this old, wise, Confucius doppelgänger, which is not a bad image of my people at all. We were halfway through exploring that bookshelf when the dance lesson started. The mid-age man taught us a six step dance that rotated in a circle. I was so nervous trying to learn and coordinate the steps that I grappled the shoulder of the people next to me as if I was hanging on for dear life. Afterwards, the Greek workman beside me, Stellos, introduced himself and apparently remarked to his friend that I was gripping his shoulder really tightly. The trench master Irini, who was on my other side, politely asked me to hold her hand with less anxiety and force.
Eventually, I did loosen up and really began to enjoy myself. Until then, the two indirect non-vocal ways I felt connected to someone was reading their writing and listening to their music. For me, reading another’s writing was both seeing the world from their point of view, as well as seeing into their soul with my own eyes; I get an opportunity to understand how their minds function and exploit a lucky occasion to imagine their perception of the world. Listening to their music connects me with their emotions, and I think one would be surprised by how much we can learn about each other from sharing playlists and songs. In my first revolutionary dance lesson, I discovered another way through which we feel connected to our peers. The beat of the song drowned out all of our howling cultural, academic, physical, and personality differences and served as an united pounding heart for everyone in the circle. Each of our feet were individual muscle fibers of this powerful beating organ, working together in unison with the rhythm and moving in absolute homogeneity and flowing grace. No one was the hero of the stage, and that was what I loved about this traditional Cretan dance. It was done as a group and was meant to connect you with others, rather than for you to show off and isolate yourself. Afterwards, as we walked back to Tholos, I thanked David for inviting me to dance. It was a barrier that I desperately needed to break, and I finally did it here on Crete.
Being confined in a small village allowed me, David, and Weston to grow very close in a short period of time. On a Thursday after working in sizzling conditions that put the Tuscan sun to shame, David, Weston, a bunch of the girls, and I trekked down to the Tholos beach villas. We attempted to check out an herb farm that, very unfortunately, was closed. David and I had worked on site that day and had grabbed a few beers before heading to the beach. After eating almost nothing up at Azoria, the alcohol flowed straight into our systems and had us tipsy in less than ten minutes. We proceeded to drink more beer as we walked and, by the time we found a table down at the beach café, the conversation was flowing like the Yangtze and words were just spilling out of our mouths. I always seem to express myself quite emotionally and very thoroughly every time I am tipsy. Being the only noticeable Asian person in this area, it was a time for me to reflect on what it meant to be a minority in the society that I live in. In the United States and Canada, I have always managed to find myself a bubble of friends who are also Asian and have the same values and life outlooks as I do. Being stuck in these bubbles curtains the fact that I am part of a minority and that, outside of these wealthy and educated spheres, being a minority plays a huge role in one’s identity. Among the local Greeks, I had to disprove the stereotype that all Asian people practice Kung Fu, since the main exposure that these Europeans have had to Asian culture is its popular Kung Fu movies. My physique didn’t really help prove my point; apparently, before they got to know me, they were referencing me as the “Karate Kid” in Greek.
As for my fellow Americans, I tried my best to explain the Asian-American experience. It was difficult because, previously, I never had to pry my mind and think so deeply about my Asian identity in America. I found my inspiration and preferred choice of diction in a Humans of New York post about a young African-American man and his experiences growing up in the suburbs of Miami. For Asian-Americans, oppression and inequality are not necessarily our biggest problems, and neither is socioeconomic status. Personally, I think the most pressing matter is a lack of recognition entrenchment in the collective American identity. For Asian-Americans, there is a barrier that makes it difficult for us to become the leaders and politicians of important institutions and almost anything to do with the general public. As a result, we resort to pursuing careers that either earn us the most money or the most respect. Our immigrant identity is still so young and fragile that we attempt to compensate by obtaining immense amounts of wealth and chasing after the most prestigious occupations, as if we are almost trying to bribe and prove our way into the collective melting pot. Being here in Greece lifted those weighty, ominous clouds off my back. It was as if Atlas had been finally freed from his eternal damnation, finally able to unwind and look upon this world with awe and appreciation for its beauty once again.
In my three short weeks here on Crete, I realized that the locals were always absolutely delighted to learn about my Asian background. They seemed to have had their fair share of American tourists and finally got the chance to spend time with someone who looks completely different. Instead of telling the Asian-American narrative that I have been building for the past twelve years, the anecdotes I shared and the mannerisms I described were as uniquely Chinese as possible, filled with experiences and memories that I pushed away and suppressed so that I could assimilate into Vancouver and fit in at Duke. Maria and I talked for two hours one night, and she told me to never forget where I came from. That “Chinese people, like Greeks, have a long history and a strong sense of ταυτότητα (taftótita; a rough Greek translation for ‘identity’).” As I rode back to the Tholos hotel in Katis’ car that night, I realized I had found myself in a community with an unapologetic and unconditional appreciation for my visible cultural diversity. I couldn’t help but beam as we sped down the road in the clear night. I looked out of the window at the faint outline of the Cretan mountains and at the constellations in the distant universe, finding the Big Dipper and the North Star. These constellations have guided ancient and modern sailors, both Greek and Chinese, away from and back to their homes for thousands of years. Staring at the North Star that night in the car, I decided that, after Crete and Austria, it was time to pay China a visit.
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Managing a blog page for a group or organization can be fun and rewarding – a phrase that should immediately toggle the cautionary button.
It’s that time of year for our annual writer’s group conference in mid-March. Since I blog somewhat regularly on WordPress, I was asked to revamp an outdated WordPress page to post presenter profiles, interviews, and conference news. Essentially, I’d be the ‘ghost in the shell’ to solicit, edit, format, and post articles by other group members.
Hey, I use WordPress all the time. How much trouble could it be?
Looking back, I ignored the ‘check details before proceeding’ indicator, and thought I’d share a few things I learned.
Get a Clear Mission Statement Before Proceeding
Valentina Conde – Unsplash
The group gave me carte blanc to redesign the page, which included an upgrade to a premium page for a small annual fee with access to better template options, widget buttons, and customary links. Nobody had to learn HTML tech-speak or pay a monthly “mortgage fee” to fancy-pants web designers.
That part was the easy.
Once the docket was approved, we created a process for members to sign up for one or more of the over twenty articles slated to print over a time frame of four – five months. First solicitation was met with a silence akin to a high school gymnasium at 2:00 AM. It took a bit of prodding by group officers to get things rolling, but eventually folks stepped up.
Create a New User Account for the Blog
Ludovic Toinel – Unsplash
I blew this one big time. As a WordPress Premium Plan user myself, I hoped to minimize the setup time by creating a new page while logged in with my own account, then adding others for administrators. Updating a page whose original owner hadn’t participated with the group for isn’t the best way to go. Page could be accessed by anyone.
I didn’t have problems with approved members accessing the blog and creating a post, but like Facebook, the WordPress folks like having an “owner” available for everything. Since I revamped the page while signed in on my personal account, only way I can unlock myself is if I delete the account. The annual bill hits my account every year like the return of robins in spring. Every year I have to rebill the group. I’m still working on a third-party Paypal invoice option.
Twenty-twenty hindsight; start fresh.
First, sign out first from any personal WordPress and Email accounts that are open.
Create a new group email and sign-in credentials if one is not available. I found Gmail to be work best. May sound like a Homer Simpson “duh”, but make sure officers know how to access it.
Then go to WordPress and create new account, using group email.
Have fun building the chosen template to fit your needs.
Be sure to include group’s mission statement in the blog page “About” profile.
Have more than one administrator assist with the management of it. I suggest offering a cocktail or two before making your pitch.
Select Template to Suit the Group’s Brand
From: blogaholicdesigns
I love WordPress because they take the pain out of designing a page. They have lots of them for writers and authors, and the web is chock full of outside designers who create WordPress compatible temples. You want it to be easy to read, not splattered with visual frilly things that distract from the text. Save that for a personal blog that celebrates all things unicorn.
I stuck with the same template I use for my personal page because I’m lazy, and the Chateau Theme has a good balance of widget placement, logos and link options.
I’ll not go into details of initial page set up. WordPress is fairly easy to navigate, and numerous Youtube videos exist from people who don’t get out much. Best advice I have in how to organize the page:
I’ve always believed a picture tells a story, even if it’s a simple message. Not everyone agrees, but to me, a blog page becomes it’s just another bunch of words in an overcrowded blogosphere universe. And since the graphic is the first visual a reader sees, make it a good one.
I went all out on my personal page on dtkrippene.com. Took me weeks to find that perfect graphic to represent my brand, “Searching For Light in the Darkness.” For a writer’s group, we agreed something less snazzy to be appropriate.
Ready, Set, Blog – Wait …
To fill in that vast empty draft space, articles authored by other group members should be submitted with the following criteria.
Micah Boswell – Unsplash
Article typed in Times-New-Roman, 12 Font, preferably on Word for Window’s, or compatible program like Open Docs. The days of handing a secretary handwritten notes for letter dictation ended decades ago, and I don’t have time to retype an entire draft. Cutting and pasting on that blank template above saves a pile of time. Avoid fancy fonts; work this on the WordPress draft if you want them.
To this day, I still get articles inside the body of an email or formatted in a weird font that I must reformat. As a result, I transfer all summitted articles to a separate Word document by copying text, using “Paste Special – Unformatted Text” to remove hidden formatting problems that don’t translate well on WordPress, followed by changing the pasted text to NTR 12. Even then, I frequently have to use WordPress’ “Clear Formatting” Button (little eraser symbol) on pasted text.
Patrick Goth – Unsplash
A useable headshot for profile or interview, not a thumbprint taken from google images, or blurry selfie shot. There won’t be enough pixels. Do not include the photo inside the Word document; which requires screen-printing to clipboard, then opening a photo program to access pic for saving as a jpeg, only to get a photo the size of a postage stamp. Most professional agents and authors will provide a media kit upon request. The upside with WordPress, if the photo is too large, it’s easily reduced in the body of the draft.
Marco Djallo – Unsplash
Editing isn’t supposed to be in the job description, but it ends up as one. Minor faux pas for punctuation and a missing word happens to everyone, but I’ve had to practically retype some submissions. There’s a lot more to it than typesetting. When I write an article for someone else, I treat it as if I’m submitting to an agent. I mean – we’re supposed to be writers.
Include social media and website links if doing a presenter profile or interview. The most time-consuming chore with posting someone else’s work (aside from chasing down useable photos), is searching the net for said links. Why is this important? It’s a common courtesy in a profile piece, and the more links we have inside the article, the greater the SEO search linkages the article will have, which leads to greater exposure. The pros know this.
Get article author’s bio and headshot. The point of volunteering to submit an article is exposure for the author. “Written by Such-n-such” is about as invisible as the dialogue tag – “said”. If article author hasn’t created a bio, this is the time to draft one. Call me old-fashioned for thinking readers want to see a human face, I tend to reject avatars. It might be acceptable with Twitter and Instagram, but if an article author wishes to remain anonymous, so be it. Unicorns and cute pugs are not writers.
Leio Mclaren – Unsplash
Article should include author’s social media links as well. I remember asking one article author if they had any social media links included in their bio, who answered with “I don’t use social media.” I almost followed up with “how does anyone know you exist as an author”, but sighed – que sera sera, and quit asking.
Pay attention to tags and keywords. For the conference, every article should be tagged with: Writing, Writing Conferences, Writing Craft. If the article is a profile or interview, add tags to identify the skill set, like ‘Author Voice’, Query Letters’, or ‘Staging Fight Scenes’. If an author of YA fantasy, tags should include YA and Fantasy. If the profile is about a publisher or book coach, include the publisher’s agency name, ‘Marketing’, ‘Self-Publishing’, ‘Indie-Publishing’, etc. It helps fine tune SEO search engines, so browsers looking for book writing tips don’t end up with suggestions on how much to tip.
Share the article on other Social Media accounts. If the group doesn’t have a Facebook Page, get one (sorry, didn’t mean to shout). To paraphrase the words of a NYT bestselling author who spoke at a past conference, blogs exist in a ‘tsunami of content’. To break out of the isolated bubble of a few group members and family friends who might read it, group postings need a social media sprinkler to let others aware the group exists. We’ve found contacting and liking other writer groups and interested parties pays big dividends. Fellow group members who participate in social media should also help broadcast the news. Ask any RWA Chapter Group; many of them have the best communicative share net on the planet.
From: imfunny.net
When posting the article link, Facebook automatically pops the first paragraph and the picture embedded in the article. It may appear to save time, but what often happens is the photograph displayed may not be the article header pic (if article contains more than one photo). Even if it is, the photograph won’t paste to Facebook Photobook. Took me a few iterations to discover the best course of action is to type in the article title, followed by pasting the article link, then physically attaching the article picture from file. Sounds convoluted, but the article graphic becomes a permanent record on the Facebook page, and it won’t be a cat selfie.
And if You’re Still a Gluten for Punishment …
Vance Osterhout – Unsplash
Our group page goes into hibernation after conference activity ends, until the next cycle begins six months later. I’ve been taught that leaving an active website unattended for long periods of time, can undo all the connections gathered. Personally, I don’t blog often, but I try to be regular. As if I wasn’t having enough fun with the group site, I suggested the platform was available to membership during the off months to:
Announce a new book, short story, or article that appeared in a magazine
Offer a poem, or short story for others to read.
Allow other writerly folk who have something to share with the group
Invite blog sharing from other sites. We’ll post your article, you post ours.
Share your writer’s journey.
Share a valuable lesson learned that may help others
Share successes. Share disappointments. We’re all in this together.
The list is endless.
The submissions for off-season, unfortunately – haven’t been.
A Side Note on Other Blogging Platforms
Markus Spiske – Unsplash
I’m a diehard WordPress user, because I’m too lazy to relearn another platform. But if you’re interested in what’s available, check out The 10 Best Free Blogging Platforms in 2018! (Pros & Cons). What you’ll find is – free gets you in the game, but it’s going to cost a bit more for any kind of customization.
I still run across writers and authors who feel the need to have someone design a custom blog website to be unique. If you want a primer for how much this stuff costs, read How Much Does a Website Design or Redesign Cost? [2019 Guide] for a hefty dose of sticker shock.
From: digitalsynopsis.com
I’ve lost count of those who claim to have a brother, cousin, uncle-of-a-neighbor who has some chops in programing. I’m all for unique, but if it’s a group site, the major issue is what happens if the programmer/administrator gets hit by the proverbial bus? Time and time again I’ve seen website “owners” disappear, leaving the hapless writer stuck with an HTML intensive site without an instruction manual.
I’m sure I missed a few things, but I think I’ve confused you enough. If you remember anything, stick with simple. You’ll be glad you did.
This ghost-in-the-shell thing is hard enough as it is.
May You Blog Well and Prosper
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By the way, we still have openings for the GLVWG Write Stuff Conference™, March 21 – 23, 2019. Check out the amazing line up of speakers and get an opportunity to pitch your book to agents and editors.
You can learn all about the presenters on the GLVWG WordPress Blog.
A lot of work went into those articles. Throw us bone will ya, and give us a like.
Ghost in the Shell – Group Blogging for Fun and High Blood Pressure Managing a blog page for a group or organization can be fun and rewarding – a phrase that should immediately toggle the cautionary button.
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