Stay (Punk Luke Hemmings)

Chapter 11

Another day, another concert. We were getting so close to the end of this leg of the tour, with only a few shows left. I can only imagine how the boys feel, having to get up and do the same songs every day. But then again, I can only imagine the rush thousands of people screaming your name is. Maybe it’s different for them.

For me, the concert atmosphere is starting to get slightly wearying, ticking my anxiety a little bit more night after night. Being surrounded by so many people, constantly, is nerve rattling.

The boys never get any less amazing; I’m still awed by the flawless nature of the synchronized jumps, the in tune harmonies, the lyrics that I had once watched them write. What was getting old was the constant screams, the jostling, and my own pettiness.

I hated seeing pretty people throwing themselves at Luke’s feet, before, after, and during the show, and hated myself even more for hating it. It was a harsh circle that I wished I could end and get myself out of.

Snapping a photograph of a girl only a few years younger than me smiling up at Michael like he’s the sun and the stars to distract myself from the girl a few years older than me, who could easily be a Victoria’s Secret angel, smiling up at Luke like there’s nothing she wouldn’t do for him, I feel sick to my stomach with my own insecurities.

The worst part was that I was feeling so insecure about somebody, who for all intents and purposes, I shouldn’t even be worried about.

Luke wasn’t my boyfriend, Luke wasn’t a potential boyfriend, he was an extremely dysfunctional past relationship.

And yet, I still flinched when I saw him leaning in attentively towards a pretty girl. I still felt myself freeze up when I heard his laugh across the room. I didn’t consider myself a jealous person. But when I saw Luke playing the charmer he had been when we first met, my stomach turned to lead, my brain turned to mush, and my eyes stayed locked on the scene playing out in front of me.

When I had complained about this to Rose, she had laughed at me. I didn’t blame her. I would have laughed at me too.

She’d also reminded me about the dress she’d packed in my things.

“Andy, I’m just saying, its there, you might as well use it.”

“I don’t want to be the kind of person who feels the need to respond to jealousy with jealousy.”

“Oh shut up, Andy. Wear the damn dress and feel good and confident in it, because you know you’re looking good, and he won’t be able to take his eyes off you, even if you do still want to gouge them out of his head.”

“I’ll think about it, Rose. No promises.”

She scoffs. “Its not like you believe in promises anyway.”

So dark, so sheer, and so short, the dress has been pulling at me every time I reached for my suitcase. It was there, and it was demanding to be worn.

To be honest with myself, I wanted to wear the dress. I wanted to go out and look good, and kiss a cute person, and go on, without worrying about an ex-lover, and who he was currently loving.

We had established this. I shouldn’t care about who he was with, and he shouldn’t care about who I was with.

And yet.

I’m jerked out of my reveries by a bottle thrust into my hand, small beads of condensation running down the amber glass.

“What’s the occasion?” I raise an eyebrow at Niall, the camera dropping from my hands to hang around my neck, banging against my chest as I turned to face the grinning idiot.