[Y/N] HARRISON SAT ACROSS FROM ME, her hair pulled back by a headband and her eyes looking everywhere but at me.

Yesterday hadn't been the best of experiences with her. After she'd barged into Susan Speck's office to rant about me, she'd flipped me off in the costuming shop and told me I wasn't an actor. Later that night, she'd played that Beatles album at full volume again. I barely got a wink of sleep—and in the grand scheme of things, I wasn't sure if she did either.

Now she was sitting at a coffee shop, going through a list of interview questions she didn't want to ask me.

"So, Mr. Connor," she said dryly, pressing record on a small, black device. "What's your full name?"

I tapped the rim of the mug in front of me. "Kit Sebastian Connor."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-five."

"Your occupation?"

"I'm an actor," I said. "Although some people believe otherwise."

She finally met my gaze, eyes narrowed at my snide comment. The truth of the matter wasn't deniable, much to her despair, so she kept moving. I watched the foam of my coffee bubble away as she scratched my answers down.

The coffee shop was different to the one I'd visited my first day here, but it was more crowded than I'd like it to be. Every table had been occupied by an assortment of people—writers, couples, and business people—and if I closed my eyes, the sound of conversation would seem like a puddled mess.

"Why'd you come to New York?" She asked.

"Same reason as anybody, I'd suppose."

"What reason would that be?"

"Opportunity. Success. The American Dream."

"And as a British person," she said, her Brooklyn accent drawled out. "What exactly is an American dream to you?"

I furrowed my brows, interested that she'd decided to ask this question. A quick glance at the notebook in front of her would show that it wasn't on the interview list. Perhaps this was all part of her scheme to berate me for disliking the Beatles, or perhaps she wasn't a half-bad journalist. I couldn't say the answer to either of those options, but thankfully I could answer the question itself.

"It's the idea of starting anew," I said, picking up my mug. The coffee sloshed around the rims, nearly spilling onto the table. "I'm from Croydon, which is relatively small compared to London as a whole, and everybody knows each other there. Here in New York, nobody cares who you are. You can be a perfect stranger."

"Does being a stranger equate to the American dream?"

"Not exactly. But being able to make new connections is what's important."

"Have you made any connections yet?"

"Well, I'm getting an exposé done with the Brooklyn Editorial," I mentioned, pointing at her. "So yeah, I'd say I have."

I wasn't trying to win her over—in fact, that was the last thing on my mind—but I was trying to save face. She had all the power in her court. Whatever she decided to publish to the world wasn't my decision, and at the end of the day, they were no longer my words. I just needed to keep her dislike for me at bay—at least until we'd stop working together. After that, I might wreak havoc on her blasphemous behaviour.

"You're all about the business, then?" She asked. "Because your intrapersonal connections don't seem to be your biggest priority."

"What do you mean?"

"Sources tell me you insulted your neighbour right off the bat." To my surprise, she reached over to stop the recording. "In fact, they also said you insulted one of the greatest bands to ever walk the face of the Earth."

My mouth dropped open slightly. "Are you joking?"

"Why would I be?"

"I hardly think now is the time to start an argument over this."

"Well, Kit Connor," she said, setting down her pen. "When would be a better time? Because I'll be perfectly honest with you, I don't want to be interviewing you at all."

I opened my mouth, but she kept talking.

"You may think I'm overacting by bringing this up, but may I remind you that you never apologised for insulting me the other day?"

"Insulting you?"

"You don't even remember what you said to me, do you?"

"Maybe not, but I'm not going to apologise for it," I said, taking a sip out of my mug. "I was perfectly within my rights to be pissed about your music. And besides, you were the one insulting me to your boss."

"I was within my rights too."

"You were, were you? Then I'm perfectly within my rights to find you just as insufferable as always."

"You don't know me, Kit Connor."

"I know you have horrid music taste," I added. "Disagree with me there?"

She said nothing, but the fuming in her eyes was almost enough to knock the sense back into my head. She grabbed her things, standing from her chair and leaving the table. I wanted to roll my eyes, say she was being ridiculous, or scoff at the idea of it all, but the sinking feeling in my stomach wasn't on my side.

I should have apologised. My stubbornness was making me out to be some British asshole, and I was starting to despise myself for it. An apology shouldn't be so hard to fathom. Especially not for something so small as this. And maybe she wasn't all that great either, but that wasn't an excuse.

Setting down my mug, I tried to follow after her.

But she'd already gone.

➵

The next morning, she didn't show up to the photoshoot.

Mary and I sat awkwardly in the studio, neither of us saying a word. Surprisingly, [y/n] hadn't played her music last night, but it led to wonder if she'd even been at home. Perhaps she was so disgusted with me that she'd slept somewhere else.

"Look, Kit," Mary said, fiddling with a sewing needle. "Whatever happened between the two of you, you need to make peace over it. Otherwise, I'm not sure if your editorial will ever see the light of day."

I sighed. "What do you suggest I do?"

Mary shot me a look.

"No," I said quickly. "Absolutely not."

The woman shrugged, and I knew I was in for it. There was only one way to get [y/n] Harrison to forgive me, and I didn't have to know her for more than three days to understand that. The answer could be found in a mere glimmer in someone's eye. If I wasn't so stubborn myself, I would find this to be the easiest thing in the world—but because I am stubborn, this felt like a massive weight on my shoulders.

"Your move, Connor," Mary said.

Fuck. 

➵

I knocked on [y/n] Harrison's door at six in the evening, and it took everything in my power for me not to run away.

The night sky had turned a purple-shade of twilight, and the buzz of cicadas sounded like singing. Not good singing, anyway. More of a shrill noise that sounded like scolding—and yes, I probably deserved it. My nerves were not in the best of spirits over the situation, and waiting for the woman to answer the door was making them worse (an obvious fact, if I'm talking about cicadas).

I heard the sound of a lock turn, and suddenly I was graced with the sight of her standing right in front of me.

"Did you know," I said, forcing the words out. "Before the Beatles became famous, Pete Best was supposed to be the drummer?"

If she was surprised, she didn't show it. There was flour on her cheek, all over her fingers, and sprinkled on the fabric of her clothes. I caught a whiff of tomatoes floating out of her flat, basil, and garlic hinted alongside it. She was probably in the middle of making dinner when I interrupted.

"Hello Kit," she said, leaning against the doorframe. "Yes, I did know that."

She didn't seem upset, but I knew she was waiting for me to say something else. Naturally an apology wouldn't be as short as a trivia fact, but speaking about the four-boyed band was a lot of effort that I went to extreme lengths to achieve.

"But do you know why he left?" I added.

She raised a brow. "Do you?"

"Yes."

"Tell me."

"He left to work in his family's bakery," I said, rocking on the balls of my feet. "That's why they replaced him with Ringo Starr."

Something changed on her face, and it could have been the moonlight. Her expression seemed to get brighter in the dim night, but while she didn't seem overjoyed by my visit, she seemed relaxed. I was just happy she hadn't decided to shove me down the stairs.

After a while, she uncrossed her arms.

"Who told you this?" She asked.

I scratched the back of my neck, aimlessly pointing behind me. "Some bloke at the record shop. I asked them if they knew anything about the Beatles."

"You did?"

I nodded.

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to apologise to you," I said, taking a deep inhale. "And I need you to know I mean it."

It was true. I hadn't been nice, and I'd insulted her from the start. And while I didn't really know her, I respected her job, and I knew we had to make peace. Also—in the least selfish way possible—I suspected that our possible truce might fix our sound issues. Either way, I'd much rather prefer it when she wasn't despising my very existence.

She stared at me for a moment longer, thinking.

"Alright," she finally said, retreating back into her flat. "Leave your shoes by the door."