stars and terrain (zayn malik)

Chapter 8

Zayn

"Really?" Her voice peaks just a little too high, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from lighting up. That makes her excited. She wants me around more often?

"Not sure what part of town yet." I say nonchalantly, when really I'm just hedging to find out where she lives.

"Where do you live?" I add. Because I want to just move next door.

"Hollywood," She replies. "In a studio. I get the occasional cockroach and my friends refuse to visit because there's never any parking. It's really close to some bars so I'm always woken up around closing time. And one time I heard a gunshot. Real lifestyles of the rich and famous stuff, you know. I really recommend the area."

"I mean, it sounds like a proper good time. I'll look into it."

"If I had your astronomer's salary I would probably buy something in Malibu."

That's actually exactly where I'd been looking at property. Yesterday before the Nashville show when I couldn't count down the hours until I got here fast enough.

I manage to play it cool, even though that's usually hard around her. "That's on the beach, yeah?"

"Mhm," she sort of hums while her mouth is full of burger. It's really cute and there's ketchup on the corner of her mouth.

I reach and swipe it up with my finger before I realize what I'm doing.

She blushes, swallows and recovers. "So the views won't be that great, but at least it's quiet."

"Quiet sounds like a dream. A bit like this." It kind of slips out and I try to think if anyone else has ever made me feel more at ease. Or more normal.

Maybe feeling at ease is normal when your life is... normal? I wouldn't really know these days.

"Quiet does sound nice," she agrees. "And I don't ever have thousands of people screaming for me."

I laugh at that and she picks at the laces of her left converse. "What is it like? Having all those people scream at you?"

I've never answered it candidly, I have my stock answers my publicist gives me for interviews. And I've never had it asked with such innocent curiosity.

"My Hollywood answer or the real one?" I ask, my eyes catching on the Hollywood sign with a smile.

"Hollywood first."

"Alright," I clear my throat and hold an invisible microphone at my chin, maintaining direct eye contact as if she's a host or reporter. "It's amazing! The energy and the rush of knowing my fans are, like, connecting to the music - y'know - s'what I do it all for. It's the best, it really makes me feel alive."

I finish my canned answer and drop my eyes.

"Now real," she prods.

My head tilts down, no fake microphone. Have I ever answered honestly? I don't do the creepy eye contact thing this time, my eyes fix on the city below that twinkles the way the stars would if we weren't in a place that drowns them out.

"At first I loved it. I was eighteen and I'd made it, like really made it, y'know? But it kept escalating and I started playing bigger venues and it just became sort of a vicious cycle. The more people that knew my name, the more my life changed. The more people that came to shows, the less I could go out in public. The more that came to shows, the more I was trapped inside."

My eyes narrow at the memory, the change overnight from being able to walk the streets in daylight alone anonymously to needing security guards to get me out of hotels.

"I've always been one of those people that didn't do so great in crowds. Like, even when I was younger. If there were a lot of people around I was the kind of kid that just needed space, right? So I got really bad panic attacks for a while. Then I got into things to numb the pain, and you probably know how that turned out."

I haven't found her eyes yet. I feel like I'm being too truthful, but it feels nice to get it out. My rehab stints were well documented, so I'm sure she knows I went through the cliche reaction to stardom. But will she think I'm not grateful for my career?

"That's all... it's all under control now. Been doing it long enough now that I learned to handle it much better. So, now I just... don't notice anymore. The faces are kind of blank and I get on stage, do my show, and leave. I'm numb." I say softly, running my hand up and down the scruff of my chin. "I sound like such a fucking dick. I love my job. I do. I've just always been a more private person, and that's not a good trait for this business."

"You don't." Her eyes are resolute. She means it. "I don't have any experience with it, but I have a feeling I'd feel the same way you do."

I just nod. I don't really know what to add; I said a lot more than I normally do on the topic to anyone. It's a weird side effect of my dream career, but I've learned to handle it and I've never really wished for a "normal" life.

Until recently.

Sitting on a bench with ten dollars worth of fast food next to Charlotte makes me wish my life was always this simple. This time tomorrow I'd be on the bench of a tour bus, surrounded by the type of girls that always manage to get themselves backstage. But I've never met one that can hold a candle to the girl who is digging in the bag for fallen French fries.

"So how'd you know I was in Kansas City," I abruptly change the subject to something kind of dick but I just need to know if my wildest thoughts are true. Is she keeping up with me on the road because she really likes me? Or is she just humoring me when I'm in town to have good stories for her girlfriends?

"I told you. TMZ."

"Riiight." I measure her expression out of the side of my eye and smile.

She might like me.

"Just like you have a last minute GQ photo shoot tomorrow."

I laugh.

"Touche."