Neon Red [Order The eBook] [Zayn]

3

"Who, the pizza shop guy?"

"Yeah," he chuckled drily, with barely concealed disdain. He hated when I called him that.

"And it was cool Adam was down, as well. You've been knowing him forever—"

"Almost as long as you."

"Yeah..." I nodded. "Hey, can I be in the band? Not as a vocalist or anythin'...I know that's all youh." He had shut his eyes while he rested, but now opened one and looked over at me.

"What're you bringing to the table then? No one's paying you to stand around and look pretty."

"I play a mean triangle, mate. Youh forgot about that?"

"Sorry, mate, Sarah's got the percussions covered, and she's a bit of a hard-ass when it comes to that. What else you got?"

"Shit, that's it then, innit?" I laughed, sitting back and tossing my head over the headrest like him.

I could already see the places his career would go—more remarkable than Nolan movies even. It was only a matter of time, and he was the sort of artist who would excel more and more with age, like Elton John or Prince. Our time in the band was only a taste of the things he'd experience on his own, I was sure of it.

For some artists, boybands were a good way to become rich and famous with little unique effort. Everyone got the same rewards no matter the size of their individual contribution, sort of like taking an equal grade in a group project that one didn't help to fulfill. That wasn't the case for him, though. He was like one of those kids who had done all the work and had everything figured out and actually understood the assignment, but still had to split the recognition among five others who didn't do nearly their fair share.

Not to slag myself or the other boys, because I certainly feel as though I contributed my fair share in the vocals department, but the other boys and I never really understood the assignment. Not just the band shit, but all the peripheral stuff like celebrity, networking, brand diversification and evolution. A lot of that stuff flew clean over our heads and we simply lived in the moment, totally unlike him. Haz was rarely ever a part of 1D. Most days we felt we were just a part of his breakout story.

We kicked it a while longer, remembering incriminating moments from on the road. Drudging up things that maybe needed to be addressed in therapy. We all picked up our vices over time; some of us more than others. I smoked too much—he drank too much sometimes whether he was willing to admit it or not. The sound of his laughter filled the room and made this old cavernous dungeon feel like a home again. I told him I was glad he was here, then finally got up the balls to lean over and kiss him on the cheek. The sound of it echoed throughout the theater and for a moment we paused. He smiled, looking ahead, rubbing his eye after.

I asked him who he kept in touch with, but he hadn't spoken to any of the other boys in a while. Too much had come between them before he left, diminishing any notion of them coming together again. A reunion was out of the question. Much had come in the way, diverting them onto different paths. The deeper he was driven down this solo route, the more he realized there was no plausible return. It would be condescending for him to do so. The others had taken roads that tentatively led back to each other if all else failed and if ever they should choose to reunite, but Haz's path would take him very far, very quickly.

Like me, when he cut ties it was tacitly understood it was not a temporary arrangement, no matter how promising the media-trained answers they were instructed to give the fans. He didn't have the heart to tell them the truth anyway, nor did he need to clarify anything upfront. Let the chips fall where they may, and in time the world would amend its expectations and understand. That's how most things worked out. His most loyal would unquestionably follow him wherever he went, and the fake ones would be the first to fall by the wayside, as I'd heard someone say one time.