6. Stranger

                                    

                                          
"I'm confident, but I can't pretend I wasn't terrified to meet you . . ."
                          
Usually the first week of school passes at a glacial pace, with students spending it looking forward to the weekend. But that wasn't the case for me, not this year. The week had flown by a little too fast for my liking. A few days ago, the court had approved Harry Styles' probation term, and he was to start his community service on Saturday, which was today.
                          
I, of course, had been dreading the whole ordeal. I didn't like the thought of a criminal roaming around my backyard, no matter what the reason. He had done horrible things and this was his punishment, but I felt like it was more of a punishment to me.
                          
I'm standing outside the horse paddock, which is where I can be found on most weekends. My mother and I used to ride them before her accident, and I miss it dearly, but I miss her even more. Now, I come out here to look at the horses and reminisce what used to be and get sad when I realize that I'll never have that again.
                          
Riding used to be my thing. I would go out on a horse whenever I was feeling down, because the wind in my hair would always lift my spirits. I could take a bad day and turn it into a good one just by climbing on a horse's back, but I don't have that privilege anymore. My father doesn't allow me to ride because he's worried that what happened to my mother will happen to me.
                          
A sudden whinny breaks me out of my thoughts. A horse that I named Gypsy comes trotting up to me, tossing her head around. She stops as she reaches the fence and looks at me. I reach out to pet her nose, and she curls her upper lip, searching for a treat.
                          
"You silly horse," I giggle. She bobs her head in response to my stroking, desperate for more contact. I stand on one of the long wooden boards of the fence, leaning over it to reach the big animal accompanying me. The other horses roam the field in the distance, minding their own.
                          
I quickly withdraw my hand when I feel a rough tongue slide against it.
                          
"Gypsy, stop that," I scold. She continues, ignoring my request. Smiling, I reach into my back pocket and pull out a treat. Holding it out, I can't help but squirm when I feel her rough tongue sliding onto my hand once more. As she chews the treat, I stroke her nose.
                          
"Good girl," I coo.
                          
"I'll say," someone says from behind me.
                          
I jump at the sound and almost fall off of the fence. Waving my hands in the air, I struggle to regain my balance. Gypsy watches me with wide eyes before running off to join the herd of horses on the other end of the field. Sighing, I jump down from the fence and turn.
                          
Harry stands there, biting back a smile at my clumsiness. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his black skinny jeans, and a white t-shirt topped with a red flannel and light denim jacket adorn his torso. His curls are pushed back by a tan bandana that I recognize as the one he wore to the party. He's also wearing the same pair of scuffed up brown boots.
                          
My heart is caught in my throat, beating erratically in response to the dangerous male standing before me. "Um, what are you doing? Shouldn't you be with my father?" I gush, panic rising in me.
                          
"He told me to come find you, said you could show me around," he says casually, shrugging.
                          
I stare at him skeptically. It doesn't make much sense for my father to leave me alone with this boy, but I know that ever since my mom died, my father hasn't stepped a foot into our backyard. He steers clear from anything that reminds him of his dead wife, and seeing how she spent nearly all of her time out here, this was one of those things.
                          
I guess that everyone grieves differently, and this was his way of doing it.
                          
"Okay," I sigh. "Follow me."