Tangerine

Chapter 68

Soundtrack: Dillon - Thirteen Thirtyfive

Dedication: katie (@dallywinston) your comment on the last tangerine chapter really got me thinking in a different light and actually helped inspire some of the events that gave this update more substance than it originally would have had, and for that i am eternally grateful, thank you so much love :)

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Naomi came in like a tidal wave and left just as curiously.

Louis showed his face shortly after Naomi arrived, not saying much of a word to any of us, but making boorish remarks to Liam whenever he felt his jaw was lacking a stretch. Niall only reappeared when Liam seemed to be having enough of it; flicking the back of Louis' head with his fingers and making the drunken lad hiss at the sting.

Naomi had an eight-hour morning flight, so she's in the air at this very moment.

As we were sharing our affectionate goodbyes before she left the party for good, she gave me a rather secretive look, whispering, "I'll text you when I'm home, okay?" I said, "Okay," not really knowing what was up, or even if anything was at all, but it's been biting at me ever since.

I'm hungover as fuck, let me tell you. My puffy eyes only add to my dishevelled appearance. I put some eye drops in before I left for the studio, so at least they aren't so red anymore, but I still look like shit. The crying really didn't help.

My band and I gathered in the early hours of the morning to drive from Toronto to Michigan. We all passed out on the bus, naturally. I honestly don't remember arriving at the hotel, I was that wasted, but I woke up here with my head pounding and my eyes unable to focus.

It didn't take long for most of the events from last night to hazily flood back to me. I'm still piecing back a number of those forgotten moments in fragments, and just- everything feels like it adds up to one thing:

I have a sick feeling that Naomi and Louis hooked up last night.

No more than five minutes had I been awake this morning and I was already crying. It was like someone took a shovel to my chest and dug out my heart; I could literally feel it breaking. I'm aching and I'm still considering the options.

I guess all I can do is wait for her text.

Fuck, I'm just so fucking totalled. I'm probably still drunk. Though, this hangover could have been twice as worse if Harry didn't insist on feeding me all of that water last night.

Bless him.

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It's noon and my shoot should be starting any minute now. The few shots that they choose for the final print are to be paired in a fashion magazine with a short interview that I'll be sitting down for, right after the photographer is done.

Now, I've had shitty days. I've been hungover, I've been ill and depressed and some days, I just haven't bloody had any motivation. Today is different. My face feels like a bruised tomato and I'm holding onto the unwanted urge to puke my guts out for more reasons than one. And I swear, if anyone asks about One Direction I'm going to change the subject to army missiles or glass tampons, because either would be a more pleasing subject to talk about right now.

"That wet paint sign has been up for two weeks," the shoot director chuckles to me as he leads me into the studio workspace with a clipboard. "I'm pretty sure the wall is dry by now."

I smile but it's a meek one.

"Indira will be taking your shots today," the man continues in his subtle American accent. "She's right over there, sorting some ideas out with your manager, but she'll be ready in a sec."